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AT LAST 



BY 


iVI rs, Maria Elise Lauder 


AUTHOR OF 

/OOFIE IN EUROPE,” “LEGENDS AND TALES OF THE 
HARZ MOUNTAINS, &C., &C. 


“TO HIM THAT OVERCOMETH.” 

“ Teach me , my God and King, 

In all things thee to see, 

And what I do in anything , 

To do it as to Thee." 



BUFFALO N Y 

CHARLES WELLS MOULTON 

1894 



Copyright, 1894, 

By MRS. MARIA ELISE LAUDER. 

(all righis reserved.) 


Printed by Charles Wells Moulton, Buffalo, N. V. 


DEDICATION. 


I dedicate my book , 
by kindest personal permission , 
given at 

Palazzo Capodimonte y 
Napoli , 

to her most gracious Majesty 

Margherita, 

Queen of Italy , 

with the hope that it may afford entertainment for 
a leisure hour from the cares of State. 




PREFACE. 


J UST look at that Mount Beau Ideal! How resplendent 
he is in that wonderful light! He lifts his unattainable 
summit into the blue, and veils it among those mysterious, 
many-tinted clouds. Alas! how imperfect all human 
achievement in view of that sublime mountain! Better so. 
Pity to the climber who has reached his aim, his Beau-Ideal. 
Eternity will not be long enough for that. 

In deepest sympathy with all my sisters and fellow- 
workers of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union all 
over the world, I have wished to add my mite to all noble, 
unselfish work done for the Master, by writing this true story. 

It can not be urged with success that I have exaggerated 
in the portions that treat of the temperance question, for 
no language that I know anything about, would be adequate 
to depict the scenes of Slumdom in any land or city. 

If my boy-hero and my heroine travel somewhat in 
France and the Riviera of Italy, they have ever the one 
great aim — to bring to God a consecrated service. My 
reader who is ever a student, and constantly discovering the 
limited extent of his own knowledge, who is an enthusiastic 
lover of art, history and historical scenes and natural beauty, 
will follow them, if not to learn, to refresh his memory. 
He will expand a hint thrown out to whet curiosity and 
inquiry in less cultivated, or youthful readers. Perhaps he 
may thus dream again the sunny dreams of his own jour- 
neyings, that, hidden away in the store-room of the mind, 
might not otherwise be turned over and recalled to memory. 

If the golden promises, and the resulting peace born of 
them to my heroine and her laddie, should bring comfort, 
healing, strength to rise and conquer, to any troubled and 
tempted soul, the writer will have her reward. 


































CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


CHAPTER I. 

No. 12 Free Street. Via dolorosa, Via cru- 

cis — Via lucis 9 

CHAPTER II. 

Lohengrin 24 

CHAPTER III. 

New Paths 35 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Ruby 43 

CHAPTER V. 

Tintern Abbey. “De Profundis. “Nel lago 

DEL CUORE 54 

CHAPTER VI. 

The Children’s Festa 66 

CHAPTER VII. 

A Boy’s Code — The Anti-Sin Club 74 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Rabenshort 87 

CHAPTER IX. 

Pearl Fishing 101 

CHAPTER X. 

The Concert 1 1 1 

CHAPTER XI. 

The Jewel Casket 115 


Contents. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A Co-DITCH-IL 120 

CHAPTER XIII. 

The Bishop of Hollikulliwogony 127 

CHAPTER XIV. 

The Atlantic Voyage 134 

CHAPTER XV. 

Dolce far Niente 140 

CHAPTER XVI. 

La Belle France 148 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Paris. In Saint Denis — Notre . Dame, Saint 

Germain L’Auxerrois 153 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Le Chateau de Rambouillet — Malmaison .... 167 
CHAPTER XIX. 

Le Chateau de Compiegne — Saint Cloud .... 177 

CHAPTER XX. 


Le Chateau de Fontainebleau et la Foret . . . 183 
CHAPTER XXI. 

Versailles, Sevres, Gobelins Tapisserie, Meu- 
don, Saint Germain — en — Laye, Marly, Le 
Palais Cardinal, Palais Royal, Le Palais 

Mazarin 189 

CHAPTER XXII. 

In Touraine. Choisy Mademoiselle, Choisy le 
Roi, Le Chateau de Blois, Le Chateau de 
Chambord, Le Chateau d’ Amboise, Chen- 
onceaux, Chaumont, Loches, Azay le Rid- 
eau, Le Chateau de Chinon 205 


Contents. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Southward. Lyons, Avignon 231 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Nella Riviera 238 

CHAPTER XXV. 

Ennabella, La Villa Dagmara 249 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

Discoveries 267 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

A Decision 284 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

In the Pergola — At Last! Gone! 297 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

Travel — Reunion 3°5 

CHAPTER XXX. 

At Last 3°7 







V 





























I 











AT LAST 


CHAPTER I. 

NO. 12 FREE STREET. 

VIA DOLOROSA, VIA CRUCIS— VIA LUCIS. 

“All common things, each day’s events, 

That with the hour begin and end, 

Our pleasures and our discontents, 

Are rounds by which we may ascend.” 

I T was a large room with three windows, one looking over 
a church toward the sunrising, one southward over several 
church spires, roofs and chimneys, and far to the left, over 
a strip of the shimmering Lake Ontario; the third looked 
westward, through which the setting sun was pouring his 
golden light. 

The apartment wore an air of refinement and taste, and 
its command of light precluded gloom, and that feeling of 
being shut in, produced by walls and darkened windows. 
One felt the conviction on entering it, that a noble soul, 
with the inward eye turned toward the true “Light,” had 
chosen it, and made it a dwelling-place of gladsomeness and 
peace. Through a large arch, hung with white lace 


IO 


At Last. 


portieres, one saw an inner room, containing a large, half- 
tester bed, and near it a smaller child’s couch, both so white 
they might have been snowed on. 

All the windows were draped in pure white, the wood- 
work was white, and the walls were of a delicate acqua 
marine. The space between the east and south windows was 
adorned by a full-length mirror, with a table in front of it, 
on which stood a large bowl filled with wild-flowers and a 
variety of ferns. The walls were hung with photographs of 
Raphael’s gloriou’s Madonna, his Transfiguration on the 
Mount, that beautiful portrait of him, that one sees in the 
Louvre and in Florence, and a portrait of Luther and 
Melancthon. There were also two aquarelles, one a view of 
the Campagna di Roma, with the Alban and Sabine Hills in 
the background, looking like heaps of precious stones in 
the winter lights, and the distant, snow-wreathed Soracte. 
The other was a sketch of Giotto’s marvelous tower of the 
Brunelleschi Duomo in Florence, both painted during 
happy days in la Bell’ Italia. 

A small, low book-case contained choice classics, and a 
carpet of pale, subdued tints covered the floors of both 
chambers. 

A gilt cage hung outside the south window, containing a 
canary — Roma — for he was a native of Rome — which sang 
a brilliant melody, for you must know Roma is an educated 
bird. On a rug near the door lay Don Pedro, a splendid 
Mount Saint Bernard of purest race. 

A round table stood before the west window, the tray laid 
for tea for two, and a tiny, shining brass tea-kettle on a 


At Last. 


ii 


small petroleum stove, sent up a cheery column of steam. 

And now permit me to introduce to you the two occu- 
pants of the apartment. Mrs. Molada sits on a low prie- 
Dieu chair near the sopha, playing lightly ‘ ‘ Addio Bella 
Napoli ” on the guitarre, and little Harry, the hero of this 
true story, is just putting the tea-pot on the table, humming 
at the same time the sweet melody, that awakens dreams of 
the blue Bay of Naples, its Capri and Ischia, its Sorento, 
its lovely shores, once the delight of Virgil and of Tasso, 
and its awful Vesuvius. 

Doctor Molada, a man of high standing in the profess- 
ional world, and well remembered in Toronto, had left his 
wife and only child a competency, which he had, unfor- 
tunately, invested in the Central Bank. When the crash of 
that bank came, Mrs. Molada’ s wealth took its flight for 
other lands, where it wrote sonnets, and disported itself 
gaily, like the Jackdaw of the fable, and the result to her 
was a change from her beautiful home Donthank, to two 
chambers, her guitarre, her piano and organ were sold, and 
a portion of her large and valuable library. 

Through the kind efforts of the Rev. Dr. Glenavon, 
pastor of the Fleur-de-lis Church, called by his own people 
Pastor Glenavon, the equipments of the chambers I have 
described, were bought in at the sale of Donthank, and 
presented to her. 

Dr. and Mrs. Molada had been— during their residence in 
Toronto — members of the Fleur-de-lis church, and the 
good pastor had been as a brother to them, and, like all 
great souls, when the tornado of sorrow broke upon them, 
he was true to the old friendship. 


12 


At Last. 


As Mrs. Molada sits in her low chair, sweeping the strings 
of her guitarre, you see a lady somewhat above the medium 
height, with a large head, gold-brown hair of that rich and 
rare shade one sees in the old paintings of Venice, a regal 
brow, too high for an artist’s type of beauty, a countenance 
illuminated by large, soft, lustrous hazel-gray eyes, and a 
firm mouth, about which plays a pensive smile — a mouth, 
though firm, of mild and gentle expression. Her graceful 
form is draped in black — there is not a hint of color about 
her save the gleam of her wonderful eyes and magnificent 
hair. At the first interview, you are struck with a sublime 
something that seems to rest like a halo over the form and 
features, and fill the great eyes with a radiant light, and you 
look again to discover the mystery. When you come to 
know her better, you will understand it. Her attitude 
towards Christ is fairly well expressed by the little hymn 
which she wrote in the hour of her bitterest sorrow: 

HOW LONG. 

How long, oh Lord, how long ? 

Has been my constant moan; 

But now my only song — 

I trust in Thee alone. 

Thy will is always good, 

And what Thou dost is best, 

Thou knowest, Lord, I would 
Seek only Thee for rest. 

My sufferings seem small, 

When I recall Thy pain, 

And Thou hast borne them all, 

That I with Thee might reign, 


At Last. 


13 


Might triumph over sin, 

And walk in constant light; 

The victory I win 
Through Thy eternal might. 

Harry is almost a perfect copy of his mother. His golden 
hair tosses itself in a beautiful confusion of freedom-loving 
curls over a massive head of grand proportions, and his eyes 
are the loveliest sapphire blue. When under the influence 
of any strong emotion, like listening to favorite poetry or 
music, the eyes seem aflame with latent fire, and the child- 
face becomes pale. Raphael would have chosen him as a 
model for one of his glorious boy-angels; he reminds one of 
Fra Angelico’s purest, divinest forms. The head is that of 
a philanthropist and of a genius. Will he write in marble 
or in colors ? — in music or in words ? Vast possibilities lie 
wrapped up in the little form. As you regard him, you see 
the fact, and you ask the same questions his mother has 
asked herself a thousand times. 

She has devoted herself during his young life, to the 
training of his rare mind, taking care to lay the foundations 
of a high, all-sided character broad and strong. But Mrs, 
Molada is in a rapid decline, combined with heart trouble, 
forbidden much physical exertion, and you feel a wild throb 
at your heart as you look at mother and son, and see that 
the boy will probably soon be motherless, as well as fatherless. 

A tap at the door interrupted the playing and the hum- 
ming, and a kind-faced woman opened it, to enquire if she 
could do anything more, and her little daughter, Bald6ra, 
somewhat larger than Harry, peeped in from behind her 
mother. 


H 


At Last. 


Mrs. Trueman is Mrs. Molada’s landlady. She is a poor 
widow ? Bless you, no; she is a poor woman with a drunken 
husband; she rents the chambers, and gives attendance, and 
takes in ironing to support herself and her helpless children 
and her useless husband. 

Query. Does a woman get out of her ‘ * sphere ’ ’ when 
she supports a lazy, good-for-nothing drunkard, who swore 
at God’s altar to “ cherish ” her ? 

How glad I am that woman has a ‘ ‘ sphere ’ ’ ! That has 
been unanimously granted her. It never entered into the 
head of any man under the sun to deny that woman has a 
“sphere,” even if he have none himself. If he had, why 
does he intrude so much into hers ? 

A sphere of which the centre is everywhere, the circum- 
ference nowhere. 

Now a 


is a large place. 

Look at it! 

If she had received only 


a 

would have been 
left out, over 
could have had 



there 
much space 
which she 
no claim. 



At Last 


15 


But she has a “ sphere.” Look at that, and see the vast 
difference between it and a flat circle. Woman has an abso- 
lute right to every inch of that globe — every square inch in 
it is hers — every cube inch in it is hers — every superficial 
inch is hers, and, therefore, the entire globe is hers, to live 
in, to work in, to use, and God has “pre-ordained” her to 
occupy it. She may dig down to the heart of it, climb the 
highest mountain-peak of it, or go down into Slumdom. 

“ Do you demand proof? Here it is.” Psalm lxviii-11: 
“ The Lord gave the word; great was the company of those 
that published it. ” I wish that every woman knew that the 
pronoun in the original Hebrew is in the feminine, and means 
women. The New Version translates it properly. “The 
Lord giveth the word; the women that publish the tidings 
are a great host.” Wonderful prophecy! for this is a pro- 
phetic Psalm — wonderful, partial fulfillment in this age! 

This is emphatically woman’s age. The world can not do 
without her work. If the great reforms that our troubled 
world so much needs, are ever to be a glorious reality, and 
not the wild chimeras of a disordered brain, it must be largely 
accomplished by woman’s influence, woman’s heart, and 
woman’s work. The world’s cosmopolitan minds already 
recognize this. 

Let it not be forgotten — a most striking fact — that the 
first commission given by the Christ after the resurrection, 
was to women. The first commission is in Matthew xxviii- 
10. The second in John xx-17. This is indisputable. Jesus 
sent women to tell men. 

It is clear, then, that woman has been pre-ordained by 


i6 


At Last 


the “Bishop of Souls” to proclaim His gospel, and in 
presence of this royal ordination, “every mouth shall be 
stopped,” that would hinder her in this the “ King’s 
business.” No deputed commission is hers. It is direct 
from the Head “ of all power in heaven and in earth.” 

One thought more. Women were present at the Pente- 
cost — Acts i-14, Acts ii-i, and, “they w’ere all filled with 
the Holy Ghost,” — “ the women, and Mary the mother of 
Jesus.” 

Mrs. Trueman was a true soul, full ofi large sympathies, 
and the whiteness of those beds already referred to, proved 
her loving care of her lodgers. 

But to return to our sheep. 

The sun had set, and the gray shadows of twilight were 
busy extinguishing every ray of light,- when they had 
finished tea. 

Harry, with rare handiness and grace for such a wee 
laddie, had put all in its place, his mother watching him the 
while with a yearning tenderness, and what an inexpressible 
solace he was to her, only her great mother-heart and God 
knew. 

Seating himself close to his mother, he said: “ Mater, 
we are very, very poor. We have not food for to-morrow. 
What shall we do?” 

“You remember I told you, Harry, that when the 
Glasgow Bank failed, ladies in Edinburgh and elsewhere, 
who had dwelt in mansions, and driven in carriages, were 
obliged to hide themselves in attics, sometimes up eight 
stories or more, and sew or knit, or do anything. And 


At Last. 


17 


they had not as we have had, a ndble pastor, to buy in 
favorite objects to furnish these home-like rooms, as our 
dear Dr. Glenavon has done.” 

“If we only had our dear piano in that space there on 
the east side, near that pleasant window, and the organ in 
that corner between the south and west windows, it would 
be so nice — just perfect! ” 

“Yes, dearie, but we must be patient and thankful. 
How good and true God has been to us. Bring your little 
Bible, son, and let us see from that, whether we are ‘ very, 
very poor,’ as you think.” 

“And your guitarre, too? We will sing, will we not? ” 

“Now, son, turn first to Isaiah liv-5,” and Harry read: 
“ For thy Maker is thine husband; the Lord of Hosts is 
his name.” 

‘ * Such a ‘ husband * can never fail, Harry, for he is the 
Omnipotent, ‘in whom all fullness dwells.’ ” Colossians i-19. 

“ Next find Jeremiah xlix-i 1.” Again the musical child- 
voice read: “ Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve 
them alive, and let thy widows trust in me.” 

“ Then Psalm cxlvi-9:” “ The Lord relieveth the 
fatherless and widow.” 

“ Now Proverbs xv-25:” “The Lord will destroy the 
house of the proud; but he will establish the border of the 
widow. ’ ’ 

“Next Exodus xxii-21-22:” “Ye shall not afflict any 
widow, or fatherless child. If thou afflict them in any 
wise, and they cry at all unto me, I will surely hear their 
cry.” 


18 


At Last. 


“ That is just wonderful, mater.’ ’ 

“The truth is, son, the grandest, choicest promises in 
God’s word, are to the widow and orphan.” 

“Mater, people can not know these words are in the 
Bible; if they did, they would not worry so, would they? ” 

“ Nor think themselves ‘very, very poor’.” 

“ Oh, mater! I did not understand when I said that." 

“ No, dearie, I know. Now, we will couple with the 
foregoing, two sublime and glorious assurances. You will 
find the first in i Corinthians iii-2 1-22-23. The second is 
in Romans viii-28.” 

Harry, trained in finding places in his Bible, having 
committed the names of all its books to memory, and 
knowing just where each book was to be found, could 
almost open at the place sought. 

Not like a person I once saw, when the pastor announced 
the first reading-lesson for ii Chronicles, turned to the list of 
the names of the books of the Bible, to find where Chron- 
icles came! Not to be able to turn to a book at once, is as 
bad as having dust on one’s Bible. 

Again Harry read: “For all things are yours, whether 
Paul, or Apollos, or Cephas, or the world, or life, or death, 
or things present, or things to come; all are yours; and ye 
are Christ’s; and Christ is God’s.” 

“And we know that all things work together for good to 
them that love God. ’ How I love those ‘ knows ’ of the 
Bible. They leave no doubt, no question, all is absolute 
certainty. It is not I hope, nor think, but ‘ I know’.” 

“ For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle 


At Last. 


19 


were dissolved, we have a building of God, an house 
not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. ’ ’ ii Corinthi- 
ans v-i. 

“ Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not 
yet appear what we shall be, but we know that when he 
shall appear we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he 
is.” i John iii-2. 

“We know that he heareth us.” i John v-15. 

“These marvelous promises, chZri, comprehensible only 
to faith, these ‘knows/ are for all God's children , and since 
you and I have taken Christ for our Lord and King, they 
are ours. But, they are only for them. There is not a 
promise to the rebel. So you see, cheri, we can not 
possibly estimate our riches, they are so vast; they fill the 
Now and the Eternities.” 

A carriage was heard to drive up and stop in front of the 
house, and Harry ran to the window. “ Oh, Miitterchen! 
It is Mrs. Raben, with carriage, and coachman and footman, 
and he has got a large basket! How nice! You said you 
knew — you trusted. God has heard! ” 

“There!” 

“ Mrs. Raben said something to the footman, and he has 
shut the carriage door again. She is not coming up. The 
footman is bringing up the basket. You will not permit him 
to leave it? It is like sending an empty carriage to a 
funeral. * ’ 

‘ ‘ Let us hear the message, cheri. ’ ’ 

In answer to the knock, Harry opened the door. Don 
Pedro barked — he understood! he had heard! 


20 


At Last. 


The liveried footman, setting down the basket, delivered 
a polite preamble, and ended that ‘ ‘ Mrs. Raben was greatly 
hurried — would call next week.” 

“Harry, say we thank Mrs. Raben very much for her 
thoughful kindness.” The footman departed, and Harry 
set down the basket and shut the door. 

‘ ‘ Mutterchen! ' ’ 

“Yes, dearie.” 

“ Is Mrs. Raben a true lady? Or has she only money f 
Is she a snob ? She dares to send you up a basket by her 
servant — she, sitting in her carriage! ” 

‘ ‘ Harry, the Lord sent the basket. Let us not worry 
over the manners of those who brought it. Is there just a 
little pride in hiding, son ? You are too little a boy to know 
that the world is full of shams and snobs. A true character 
knows that money does not make true merit, or high culture 
and breeding per se. But it is a mighty factor for good, 
consecrated to God. 

She would not have dared act so if we had been at Don- 
thank.” 

‘ ‘ There would have been no need, Harry. The Central 
Bank made all the trouble — but it has been permitted.” 

“Why?” 

“ I can not answer you — I have many thoughts about 
it. But, now, bring in Roma, or we shall have him hoarse; 
how sweetly he sings to-night! ” 

Patting Don Pedro’s beautiful head, he went to the win- 
dow followed by the dog, when he suddenly exclaimed, 

“ Oh, Mutterchen! Here are Pastor and Mrs. Glenavon, 


At Last 


21 


and she is carrying a basket!” and Harry flew down the 
stairway to meet them. 

“We have just come to say good evening for a minute,” 
said Mrs. Glenavon, entering. “ I have been so much 
engaged to-day, that I could not come earlier. To-morrow 
will be my husband’s birthday, and as you are not able to 
join us just yet, I thought we would run over and bring you 
a share of our preparations.” 

“And I suspect,” said the pastor, “that Harry will 
find his favorite cake, to say nothing of a certain cream — 
Charlotte Russe, which is rather toothsome for older boys.” 

The Rev. Dr. Glenavon was a born pastor. His tall and 
slender figure was seen quite as frequently at the doors of 
the poor and neglected, as at those of the opulent. He had 
a true sympathy for the rich, who are often misunderstood 
and undeservedly censured, and from whom impossibilities 
are sometimes expected; but there was not a single grain of 
snobbishness or toadyism in his composition. Simple and 
unassuming in manners, he made himself at home every- 
where. In the home where Sorrow had enthoned herself, 
there he sat down at the hearthstone of the heart, where oft- 
times only the gray ashes of consumed earthly joys and 
hopes were left, and which no leaping flame should again 
gladden, and in just the right words held up the torch of 
eternal hope and faith. And when he went away people 
said, 

“ What a beautiful life! ” 

In the pulpit he captivated the thinkers, and the non-re- 
flecting he set a thinking. Whether he examined the surface, 


22 


At Last 


face, or plunged beneath the surface, or looked at the under 
side of things, or dug to the core of them, or traced the 
guiding Hand in the mazes of life’s tragedy, there were 
always the racy style, the quaint, sparkling thought, bracing 
the intellectual being like a mountain breeze. 

He was a poet too, in the highest sense, and many of his 
poetical flights in the pulpit were evovled from his arduous 
brain, though the fact was not always known. His quiet 
modesty delayed people in discovering all his rare intellect* 
uality. 

“ I see you have your guitarre ready, dear Mrs. Molada, 
will you and Harry sing ? Or, if you must not, accompany 
him ?” 

“ I feel my heart so full, Dr. Glenavon, I must try a little 
to-night.” 

Mrs. Molada possessed a voice of rare pathos, and rich- 
ness of tone and color, and she had carefully trained Harry. 
She sang that beautiful solo from Mendelssohn’s “ Elijah,” 
“Cast thy burden upon the Lord,” and then Harry had to 
sing alone the same composer’s “ The Lord is mindful of 
His Own ” from the “St. Paul.” When he came to “ Bow 
down before him, ye mighty,” he sang with such abandon, 
with upturned face, forgetful of all around him, his face 
pale with enthusiasm, that the mother forgot her accom- 
paniment to listen, and the pastor rose and moved toward 
the window. 

So must Mendelssohn himself have looked in his moments 
of inspiration. Harry,” said Dr. Glenavon, “ God has 
given you a voice to sing; have you consecrated it to Him ? ” 


Last. 


23 


‘‘Yes, Dr. Glenavon — I am all His.’' 

A sudden and powerful change, a wonderful development 
seemed to have taken place in the boy as he had sung, and 
not only the mother, but Dr. and Mrs. Glenavon had been 
struck with it. 

When they had taken leave, Harry set to work to dis- 
cover the contents of the two baskets. 

Mrs. Raben’s contained a dozen bananas, a large basin 
of strawberries ready for table, a jug of cream, another of 
milk, a roast chicken, a boiled tongue, bread and cake. 

In Mrs. Glenavon’ s, were a loaf of home-made bread, 
rolls, a roll of butter of the choicest, fruit, and the cake and 
Charlotte Russe of which the pastor had so playfully spoken. 

“What do you think now, son, of your ‘very very 
poor?’ ” 

Her face was shining with a wondrous light, and a tear 
glistened in the great eyes. 

“ Carissima mia ,” Harry cried, embracing her passion- 
ately, “ I will never say I am poor again, never. You have 
.proved to me that that is impossible. How queer! We 
have nothing , and yet we have ‘ all things! ’ ” 

“ To the world a paradox. May my wee laddie never 
forget the divine command — ‘ Have faith in God.’ ” 


CHAPTER II. 


)■ 


.LOHENGRIN. 


“ So many worlds, so much to do, 

So little done, such things to be.” 

ATER, may I go down town ? I want to see a boy 



I VI about something. May I do what I like all this 
morning? You always said you could trust your Harry. I 
will be back before noon.” 

“You are a wee laddie to go about alone. You know 
nothing of the world.” 

“ ‘ Little Mother,’ I shall have to learn, now we are all 
alone, poor, and you ill. When we used to drive, or ride, 
and visit the poor so much, I saw and heard all sorts of 
boys. I know a good many poor boys. Please let me go, 
and say I may do what I choose.” 

“I trust you, son, but I fear others. Go with God’s 
blessing. ’ ’ 

“ Addio Carissima mia ,” and hugging his mother enough 
to strangle her, Harry dashed down the stairs, and turned 
his steps toward King Street, his constant companion, Don 
Pedro, marching with stately dignity by his side. 

Harry was a precocious boy of double his years, of strik- 
ing originality, great self-reliance, and a courage that did 
not know what fear meant. 


At Last. 


25 


anima tua e da viltate offesa could not be asserted 
of my little hero; true, he had, so to speak, no experience 
of life; as with all children, his knowledge was, so far, 
largely subjective, though he was far wiser than people gave 
him credit for — the objective must come with life — sorrow, 
life-joy, life-disappointment and disillusion. 

His theory, not yet understood by himself, or developed, 
was that to will was to do, and, to a certain extent, he was 
right. He had not yet learned that there are limitations 
to this will-power and its results. 

His love for his mother was the governing passion of his 
young soul, and now, when she was reduced to poverty and 
delicate health, all sorts of plans for her support and com- 
fort floated through his boyish mind. Of himself he never 
thought* only of her; and, though, perhaps not fully con- 
scious of it, his trust in God was perfect. Those promises, 
of which she had spoken so sweetly and eloquently, and 
with such childlike faith, had stamped themselves deeply on 
his mind, and would lend tone and color to his life. Mrs. 
Molada had proved her superior wisdom and insight into 
the boy’s character, by trusting him; nothing would have 
discouraged him, and grieved his high and noble spirit, like 
a want of confidence. 

At the corner of King and Toronto streets, Pat Donegal 
had a ‘ ‘ stand ” as a boot-black. Harry had been with his 
mother to visit the Donegals, a very poor Irish family, who 
had known better days, and he knew Pat as a kind, 
generous lad. 


♦Thy soul is oppressed with vile fear. 


26 


At Last. 


Pat Donegal was the ‘ ‘ boy ’ ’ Harry wanted to see, and 
he was not long in reaching the place where he worked. 

“ Good morning, Pat. How is business ? ” 

“Hello! Molada. What does such a little toad as you 
know ’bout ‘ business ? ’ What’s up ? ” 

“ Pat, I am going into business, and I want you to tell 
me some things — to teach me. Will you ? ” 

“You! Business? Whatever’s in the wind?*' cried 
Pat in genuine surprise. 

“See, Pat, you know the Central Bank has — ’’ “quashed" 
interrupted Pat, emphatically — “and / must take care of 
my mater.’’ 

“ St. Patrick! You? ” 

“Yes, Pat.” 

“ What are you going to do, Samson ! ” 

“I am going to be a Newsboy; but I must earn some 
money to buy my papers to start with.” 

“Oh, I’ll lend you all you need. I don’t forget your 
beautiful lady-mother’s visits, and baskets of good things, 
nor her kindness when poor sister Nora died, either. I 
would do anything for her and you.” 

“ Thank you Pat. I knew you were the boy to consult ; 
but I have resolved never to borrow. I will earn it.” 

“ Resolved!” That’s a big ’un for such a little codger. 
“ How will you earn it? ” 

‘ ‘ Blacking boots. ’ ’ 

Pat uttered a prolonged wheugh. 

“ Pat, you must not judge me by my size. I think I can 
do it. What do yon say when you want to polish a gentle- 
man’s boots? ” 


At Last. 


27 


44 Do you want a shine, sir? ” 

44 How much should he pay ? ” 

“Ten cents I ask. A generous cove sometimes gives 
more. Is Don Pedro going to help? ” 

Don Pedro wagged his tail. 

44 Thank you so much, Pat,” and they turned to go. 

“I say, hello!” cried Pat. “You’d better go to the 
corner of King and Yonge, there by Ellis’ Jewelry store.” 

Don Pedro careered and danced around his young master 
like a dog out of his mind. Harry hastened back to No. 12 , 
but not home. He knocked at Mrs. Trueman’s door. She 
was ironing, and Bald6ra was attending to the fire. Out of 
breath he managed to say, “Mrs. Trueman, I want our 
boot-brushes and polish, and the stool till noon, if Bald6ra 
can nurse baby without it, and the whisk too, please.” 

4 4 Why, Harry, what do you want with them ? I am 
doing those things for you.” 

44 1 will tell you again Mrs. Trueman, I am in a great 
hurry now. Mater has given me the whole morning to do 
as I choose.” 

“Well, I never!” exclaimed Mrs. Trueman, but Harry 
was gone, Don Pedro carrying the whisk. 

It was a lovely June morning. The chimes of the English 
Cathedral were ringing nine, and the various steamboats, 
arriving and departing, were expressing their high apprecia- 
tion of sounds by letting off steam in dismal minor, or sharp 
major key. 

Harry reached Ellis’ store, and just opposite the Dominion 
Bank he set down his stool and laid his brushes and box of 


28 


At Last. 


blacking on it. Don Pedro kept the whisk firmly in his 
mouth. Harry had not long to wait. Presently a tall man 
of majestic mien approached, attended by an Italian servant 
carrying a valise. He was of the purest Saxon type, pale 
yellow hair, blue eyes, an athlete, over six feet in stature, but 
with a remarkable grace and lightness in every movement. 
The countenance was a very striking one; it was not only a 
handsome, but a good, a noble face, without a trace of vanity. 

There was a latent power expressed in the massive head, 
covered with those bright golden curls, in the fine features, 
in the whole personality. He looked like a man who could 
do anything he chose to do; like one, who, once aroused, 
would perform mighty deeds. 

The ancient Scandinavians would have called him Balder 
of the Norse Myths. He looked a worthy spring-god. 

Harry saluted the stranger with the gesture of a prince, 
and said: 

“ Do you want a shine, sir? ” 

“What did you say?” asked the gentleman. “ Per 
Dacco! Poverello /”* he added in undisguised amazenent. 
The manner of the boy and the question he had asked did 
not rhyme. 

‘ ‘ Santissimia Mai'ia! E piccolo! ’ ’ 

“Thou art right Alessandro — he is ‘ piccolo.' 1 What is 
thy name Master Lilliput? ” 

“ Harry Molada.” 

“ What a musical name! Are you from Italy? ” 

“Our name is of Eastern origin. I am Canadian born.” 


♦Per Bacco! Poverello! By Bacchus! Poor little fellow! 


At Last. 


29 


‘ ‘ ‘ Eastern ’ is it ? And you want to ‘ shine ’ my boots 
do you ? How long have you been at this work ? ” 

“I never polished a boot. Yours will be the first pair, 
and they are very dusty.” 

The stranger looked down at his boots and laughed. 
‘ ‘ How long do you expect to ‘ shine ’ boots ? ’ ’ 

“ I am just making this a stepping-stone. I intend to be 
a newsboy.” 

“What do you know about ‘ stepping-stones ? ” 

“Why, you know Tennyson says: ‘Men may rise on 
stepping-stones of their dead selves to better things.’ ” 

“So! Is that beautiful dog yours ? ” 

“Yes. That is Don Pedro. Mater brought him from 
Mount Saint Bernard.” 

Don Pedro wagged his tail, and tossed his head. 

“What is he carrying that brush for? ” 

“ I thought I might brush some one’s coat or hat.” 
“You are an original scrap of humanity. Do you speak 
Italian?” 

“ Si, Signore , un poco. — Yes sir, a little.” 

“And German, too?” 

“Ja, mein Herr , ein wenig. ’ ’ 

“ And, of course French ? ” 

“ Oui, Monsieur , un peu .” 

“And Spanish probably? ” 

‘ ‘ Si, Senor, un poco. ’ ’ 

“ Where did you learn all these foreign tongues? ” 

‘ ‘ Mater taught me. Pater also spoke several languages. 
We take a different language every day.” 


30 


At Last, 


Let it not be imagined that I am guilty of exaggeration, 
or am describing an impossible or improbable precocity. 
My traveled and experienced reader will know full well that 
such is not the case. On the Continent of Europe all culti- 
vated families speak several languages. A professor of 
distinction in Heidelberg said to me that he did not intend 
his daughters to grow up “with a German mouth.” And 
they spoke several languages with perfect fluency as a 
mother tongue. Take a little child just beginning to lisp 
words. Speak to it alternately in French, Norwegian, Dan- 
ish, and that child will soon distinguish one from the other, 
and will reply very soon in the language in which you address 
it. Try it, and you will prove the truth of my assertion. I 
know that of which I affirm. You would be surprised at the 
speed and ease with which a child will learn to speak a 
language. I knew a wee Americaine of five years in Paris, 
who spoke French exactly like a French child in three 
months, while her sister of sixteen did not speak so well in 
six months. All mothers ought to be linguists. A good 
mother will spend hours daily in her nursery — it is a true 
sanctuary to her — and her little people will know all the 
modern languages she does. And what weariness this 
would save in a University course — and what time — and 
then the student does not learn to speak these languages 
there. But what he learns with his mother in his first seven 
or eight years, has become as much a part of him as his 
head. 

Again. Why may not America produce a precocious 
boy? Italy has her precocious Dante. Germany has 


At Last. 


3i 


her “ Wonder-child, ” Mozart, who played before the great 
Austrian Empress at seven years with eclat , and Hungary 
her Liszt, who played before Beethoven at nine, and aston- 
ished him. After this furious digression, we return to our 
sheep. 

The stranger gazed earnestly into the sweet face, and the 
great eyes, and an expression of melancholy swept like a 
shadow across his noble countenance. What was it that had 
so suddenly recalled a.face he had known and lost so long 
ago forever ? 

“ How is it you are wishing to polish boots to buy 
papers ? ’ * 

“Pater died. He left us rich; but the Central Bank 
failed — failed — and — and mater has only me — and she is 
ill. Our money was not simply invested in the Central 
Bank. Dear pater held shares you know — and — so we lost 
double , you see.” 

“ Yes, yes, I see. It is hard on you, my wee chappie.” 

The stranger reflected. Turning to his attendant, he 
said: 

* ‘Alessandro, thou canst make use of these things. Thou 
hast lost thine again, without doubt.” 

“k Siccuro, Si Signore .” 

Then addressing himself to Harry, he said: “You see, 
Molada, I am a traveler, wandering all over the world, and 
my man here needs these things you have. Will you sell 
them to me? ” 

“ I promised Mrs. Trueman to return with them at 
>) 


noon. 


32 


At Last. 


“ Who is Mrs. Trueman ? ” 

‘‘She is our landlady. We rent our rooms from her, 
she serves us.” 

“Are the articles hers ? ” 

‘ ‘ No, they are ours. ’ * 

“ Then just tell her you sold them.” 

“ But Bald6ra uses the stool to nurse baby.” 

“Oh, you can keep the stool. I will take the whole 
Kitt , whisk and all. Here, Alessandro, polish my boots — 
and — Molada, you might brush my hat; it is dusty enough.” 

This being finished, the stranger put a gold coin, a double 
eagle, in Harry’s hand. More he dared not do. 

“ Oh, this is too much! ” 

“No, it is not. You have taught me a lesson, Brave- 
heart, worth the gold a thousand times. Now tell me 
where I can find good coffee.” 

“At Mrs. Coleman’s, King Street West, just this side of 
the Rossin House. The number is 113.” 

“ Good-bye, Molada. We shall see each other again.” 

“ Addio , Signorino ,” added Alessandro, removing his hat. 

“ Will you not tell me your name ? ” 

“ Oh, call me Lohengrin. I am traveling incognito . 
Good-bye.” 

The little fellow watched his new friend till he was lost in 
the distance, then set off for home, the double eagle in his 
hand, Don Pedro carrying the stool. Rushing into Mrs. 
Trueman’s, he cried: 

“ Mrs. Trueman, I have brought Bald6ra the stool to 
keep. I sold the other things for this — see ? ” 


At Last. 


33 


“ Be still. Is it possible? Why it is a double eagle! ” 

Mrs. Molada had laid the covers for dinner before the 
western window, which looked down on a flower-garden 
and trees, had decorated it with the wood-flowers Harry 
had gathered, and some fruit. All was ready for Mrs. 
Trueman to bring in dinner. 

She was playing softly Schumann’s Schlummer Lied 
when Harry knocked, entered radiant as a sunbeam, kissed 
his mother over and over, and then laid the gold coin in her 
hand. Then he told her of the interview with Lohengrin. 

“ What was he like, Harry ? ” 

Harry drew a picture. Mrs. Molada laughed. 

“ I wonder who he can be,” she said. 

“ He said we would meet again.” 

Mrs. Molada seemed lost in a reverie. Then Harry told 
her all about his plan to be a newsboy, and she was still 
silent. And then Mrs. Trueman served their simple dinner, 
but, thanks to those two baskets, their sweets and dessert 
were not wanting. 

“You know, mater,” said Harry, as they still sat at 
table, “one tenth of that ten dollars is the Lord’s.” 

4 ‘ I am glad you thought of that yourself, chtri. All you 
have is a gift from Him, to enable you to try to make the 
world better, and your life, grander, nobler, more powerful.” 

Harry placed a plate of bananas on the table before the 
mirror, together with that bowl of fresh wild-flowers and 
ferns, calling his mother’s attention to their loveliness. 

4 4 What a proof we have had, son mine, last night and 
this morning, of God’s love and care. Those promises we 


34 


At Last. 


read together have been verified in our experience within 
twenty-four hours.” 

“ Carissima* you are always so quiet and happy — so 
sure. ’ ’ 

“Yes, c fieri, I am sure , because I believe God. ‘I know 
him whom I have believed.’ Our Father keeps his word.” 

“ Will he never forget, or rather wait to answer ? ” 

“ Perhaps ‘wait,’ to try our faith, ‘forget,’ never. Where 
is your Bible? Open at Isaiah xxxiii-15-16. ‘He that 
walketh righteously and speaketh uprightly; he shall dwell 
on high: his place of defence shall be the munitions of 
rocks: bread shall be given him; his waters shall be sure . 1 
Then Psalm clii-15. ‘I will satisfy her poor with bread.’ 
Thus I might quote by the hour. There are thousands of 
promises.” 

Then Mrs. Molada took her guitarre and they sang: 

“Take the name of Jesus with you,” and then Harry 
sought his books. 

“ Mater, it is Deutsch\ to-day, and I have to- repeat the 
first half of Schiller’s Lied der Glocke — The Song of the 
Bell.” 

“ That is true, you may stand to repeat it, nay I need not 
the book.” 


*Carissima — dearest — a favorite pet name of Harry’s for his mother, 
f Deutsch — German. 


CHAPTER III. 


NEW PATHS. 


“ Fill all the stops of life with tuneful breath.” 

“ I felt so young, so strong, so sure of God! ” 

“ I heard at night a little child go singing.” 

HE day after Harry’s rencontre with his mysterious 



1 friend Lohengrin, he had sought counsel of another 
boy, this time a newsboy, Max Dorn. He found Max at 
the corner by the Dominion Bank. 

“ Max, I want you to tell me how you buy your papers.” 

“ What do you want to know for ? ” 

“ I am going to be a newsboy, too.” 

‘ * Good for you ! ’ ’ cried Max. ‘ ‘ How many papers do 
you ’spose you can carry? Of course Don Pedro’ 11 help. 

Don Pedro pricked up his ears. 

“Oh, lots /” said Harry. 

“Well now, you see,” said Max, assuming a very know- 
ing look, very much like that of a crow, “it stands to 
reason you must clear somethin’, or else what ’ud be the 
good ? You must buy wholesale, and then they give you a 
rabbit. ’ ’ 

“A ‘rabbit’ ?” 

“Yes, you git somethin’ taken off, rabbit they call it, I 
dunno why.” 


36 


At Last. 


“ Oh, Max, I think you mean rabate; the word comes 
from a French verb, rabattre , to abate, to lessen; the price 
is lowered because you take a number.” 

“That’s the ide’, ’zac’ly. I say, Molada, its O. K. to 
know ’bout things. Now I don’t know ’most nothin’. If 
I had a mother like yourn — my mother’s dead — father too. 
I live in the Newsboys’ lodging-house. If we only had a 
bigger house, it ’ud be comfortabler; we’re awful crowded. 
Come and see. You could help us to read and write. 
We’re goin’ to have a night school.” 

“ That I will, Max. I will help you all I can. Now tell 
me the rest about the papers.” 

“ Well, in a dozen cent papers, you git a cent r abutter! 
For two cent papers, you’d git two cents in a dozen; in five 
cent papers, five cents in a dozen. ’ ’ 

“ I see. It is quite clear. You are very good at reck- 
oning, Max. There is a twenty-five cent piece for your 
lesson. You can teach well. Do you ever put anything in 
the savings bank ? ” 

* ‘ How kin I ? I had to buy a suit — cheap — hat and 
boots for to go to church and Sunday school. ’ ’ 

“You will be able to, after awhile, Max.” 

“ I will ’s soon ’s I kin, you bet.” 

“You do not waste your cents on beer, or whisky, or 
tobacco, I know.” 

“ You bet your life I don’t,” 

“ Good morning, Max. Thanks, very much.” 

“ Good morning,” said Max, touching his poor little torn 
hat. 


i 


At Last. 


37 




* 


I 


ty - did!” 


Sang birdie, in a wild delirium of gladness. 




* £■ 

• ' : 

V V - 


“No - no - no! No - no - no! 


Katie did not , ’ ’ echoed Harry, as he went gaily through the 
beautiful fields at Parkdale, bordering the blue waters of 
Lake Ontario — Beautiful Water — a blue that rivals at times 
the blue of Bell’ Italia, treading down the great snowy-golden- 
hearted-daisies, the shining buttercups, the rich dandelions, 
that grow like a carpet, so that one could not set the foot 
down anywhere without crushing them. 

‘ ‘ Thou bonnie gem ! ’ ’ soliloquized Harry, plucking a 
great daisy, large as a Roman one, and putting it in his 
buttonhole. 

“I know another daisy as pretty as thou, they call her 
Gowan. I .would give thee to her if I could. If I only 
had a fern now! Never mind though; mater and I will find 
an abundance in Humber Woods this afternoon,” and he 
went merrily on, Don Pedro careering around him in high 
glee. 

Little “ Braveheart! ” Lohengrin had rightly named him. 
He had been taking the morning papers to some of his 


38 


At Last. 


customers and was returning. As he hailed the King 
street west trolley going east, on his way to the banks, two 
gentlemen in it observed him, old friends of his father’s. 

Dr. Kurewell remarked to Senator Swinton: “I declare, 
there is little Molada! What a picture he makes with that 
grand dog! Poor Molada! Well, well! one up, another 
down, and the game goes on, and the years fly! I was 
best man at his wedding. Who would have imagined all 
this a year ago ? Central Bank bankrupt, that noble Mrs. 
Molada plunged in sudden indigence, with that fine boy to 
educate.” 

Meanwhile, Harry entered the trolley, saluted his two 
friends, sold to them and every other man there some one, 
of his papers, and at Molson’s Bank he alighted. 

“That is a very remarkable boy,” remarked Senator 
Swinton. “ He will make a noise in the world, depend 
upon it. I hear he speaks five languages fluently, and his 
only teacher has been his mother.” 

“What extraordinary things, events, environments, go to 
the formation of a great character in man or woman,” said 
Dr. Kurewell; “that lad is learning men, boys, nature, 
things, now, in a way he would not, perhaps have done, but 
for the apparent misfortune. Poverty is a gr^at master, a 
resistless propeller. Look at our Edison, the newsboy 
genius of Canada. Where did he pick up his telephone ? 
Genius is an unfathomable mystery, possibly akin to inspi- 
ration.” 

“It unquestionably is a sort of inspiration,” replied the 
Senator, ‘ ‘ inasmuch as all intellectual force and power 


At Last. 


39 


come from the All wise. And this marvelous age, just at the 
threshold of the twentieth century, will doubtless see other 
great inventions and discoveries. Events move rapidly, 
great reforms are fighting for the mastery. The world 
needs great philanthropists, never more, and these must be 
growing up somewhere. God always has his man ready for 
the need. Canada has yet to produce her Luther, Shake- 
speare, Beethoven, Liszt, Raphael. Canada is young, her 
future is destined to be great. ’ ’ 

“You are right,” said Dr. Kurewell, “ this is a wonder- 
ful age; it has many startling characteristics, mastery of 
unseen forces, education of the masses, freedom of thought 
and of the press, scientific method of thought, with much 
skepticism I grant, considerations concerning the relations of 
capital and labor, the true position of woman in the social, 
ecclesiastical and political economies, her education for her 
rightful position, her enfranchisement; the x question of 
temperance reform; each of these is of immense importance 
in epoch-making and national development, and some of 
these questions will demand settlement in the near future, 
as the Sabbath question, or I am much mistaken.” 

“ Yes, ” replied Senator Swinton ; ‘ ‘and there are questions 
of vast importance to Canada now, and destined to be far- 
reaching in their results, as the dual-language question, the 
just power of the Jesuites. Then the struggles of the laity 
or proletariat in the various churches, to attain to more 
power, and a controlling influence over the clergy, is a very 
marked feature of the past decade.” 

“ Speaking of the temperance reform,” said Dr. Kurewell, 


40 


At Last 


“in my estimation, it is immeasurably the most impor- 
tant of the moment. Did you hear the new lecturer on 
temperance last week, Mr. Colonna? The meteor-flashes 
of his burning eloquence are dazzling. Since Punshon and 
Darcy McGee, we have had nothing to equal him, and his 
reasoning is clear, logical, and absolutely unanswerable.” 

“No, I regret I could not hear him, though in full sym- 
pathy with the temperance reform, and I expect much from 
that noble organization of grand women, ‘ The Woman’s 
Christian Temperance Union.’ This work can never be 
done without woman. She will be the main factor.” 

After our young hero had gone the rounds of *he banks, 
where he had several subscribers, he hastened down to the 
Montreal steamer, the Corsican , which had already sharply 
warned tout le monde by her first whistle, that her departure 
was not far distant. 

On board, he speedily disposed of his remaining papers, 
and on his way to go ashore, he heard a familiar voice 
behind him, “Hello Molada!” He turned to see Lohen- 
grin and Alessandro. There was no time for conversation, 
for the last whistle was distinctly imperative. 

“Sold out, I see!” said Lohengrin; “ not even a single 
paper for me! Doing well, eh ? ” 

‘ ‘Are you going away ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, off to ‘shoot the rapids.’ We will meet again in 
some land or another. ’ ’ 

“ I hope so.” 

‘ ‘ Good bye ! Au revoir! ’ ’ 

“ Au revoir!" cried Harry, in his voice a hint of a shake. 


At Last. 


4i 


“ Arivederci!" cried Alessandro, removing his hat, 
with a profound bow. 

“Mater!” exclaimed Harry, rushing into the room; 
“Lohengrin is gone! I have just seen him on board the 
Corsican. ’ ’ 

“So!” said Mrs. Molada. 

Humber Wood was refreshingly cool, and luxuriant with 
wild flowers and ferns. Mrs. Molada seemed to gain strength 
from the pure, fragrant air; her cough was less tyranical. 
She was an accomplished botanist, and while she sat and 
rested, Harry brought her the sweet angel-flowers, and 
together they dissected and studied calyx and corolla, sta- 
mens and pistils, and she explained to him some of the 
mysteries of plant-life, the varied leaf-forms. 

In the marshy bits along Humber river grows the mag- 
nificent pitcher-plant, Sarracenia purpurea. It is an inter- 
esting fact, that a Frenchman gave his name to this beautiful 
botonical genus Sarracenia, of which he specially describes 
the Sarracenia purpurea, or pitcher-plant. This person was 
Dr. Sarrazin, both a naturalist and physician, and the friend 
and contemporary in Canada of the traveler and historian, 
the Jesuit Charlevoix, and the Marquis de la Galisonniere, 
the most enlightened of the French governors. 

In 'Humber Wood also grows in luxuriance the Moc- 
asin-flower, or lady’s slipper, and the lady’s Mantle, belong- 
ing to the exquisite wild-wood orchids of the genus Cypri- 
pedium, its pure white touched with the faintest blush, or 
deeper rose. Those unfamiliar with wild-wood solitudes, 
can scarcely have an adequate idea of the loveliness of this 


42 


At Last. 


glory of our Canadian woodlands. Charming blue, violet, 
pink, yellow and white blooms mingled with the greens of 
ferns and moss, foliage and undergrowths. Nodding blue- 
bells greeted one; snow-white trilliums, and delicate wood- 
anemones — the Germans call it wind-blume, wind-flower, 
waved gently in the faint breeze; white waxy mandrakes 
expressed their fragrant breath; the yellow elecampane, its 
root full of exquisite sweetness, the plant that in fable sprung 
from Helen’s tears, offered her incense to the sylvan god- 
dess. Trailing things clambered and twined, and swung in 
mid-air. One finds, too, the wondrous Ginseng, Panax 
Quinquifoluim, possessing, if we are to believe the Chinese, 
miraculous youth and vigor restoring powers, bringing to 
age and decrepitupe, all that they have lost. 

“ What does the word ‘ ginseng ’ mean, Mater? ” 

“ It is a Chinese word, and signifies the resemblance of a 
man, or man’s thigh, hence the name, for its creamy-white 
root resembles the lower extremities of the human form. 
The Iroquois word is garentoquen, signifying legs and thigh 
separated. ’ ’ 

Harry was in an Elysium. He wrapped up the freshly- 
gathered flowers in damp moss, then he opened the luncheon- 
basket, whisked out the little spiritus lamp, boiled water and 
made his mother a cup of tea. How happy they were 
together! But the sun, as he has a trick of doing, got 
down on a level with the tree-tops, and threw long shadows, 
and swiftly approaching night sent them back to the smoke 
and dust of the city. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE RUBY. 

“Oh, beings blind! what ignorance besets you?” 

“ Of this be sure, 

Where freedom is not, there no virtue is: 

If there be none, this world is all a cheat.” 

I T was on a corner, where four streets crossed, so that its 
chances were good for entrapping its victims. It was a 
“ first- class ” saloon, was the Ruby, though it would have 
been difficult to tell to what ‘ * class ’ ’ some of its guests 
belonged. It was rightly named, for no ruby could boast 
such a blood-red dye as the noses it turned out. 

Men have a queer way of classifying the genus, Homo. 
They have their ‘ first class,’ ‘ middle class, ’ ‘ lower classes/ 
till they reach the lowest scale in the human gamut — ‘ the 
scum of society,’ ‘the tramp,’ ‘the wretched dwellers in the 
Slums. They seem to forget that there must have been a 
time when these Slums found origin, and that men and 
women began sometime, first to create them, then to live 
in them, till, finally, they were born there, and died there, 
and — well, God knows how they died, and how they were 
buried! These people never seem to ask if they have any- 
thing to do with these Slums, or, ‘‘am I my brother’s keeper? ” 


44 


At Last. 


Do they forget that these ‘ classes, ’ all have souls, whether 
they belong to Exclusiviana or to Slumdom, living, immortal 
souls, capable of upstepping or upleading to God himself, 
or, on the other hand, of descending, incalculably far below 
the brute ? But few ask ‘ ‘ how did they get so low ? ’ ’ They 
were not created low. Man ‘ ‘ was created in the image of 
God.” 

I imagine, should you ask these people if Christ died for 
every soul, for the poor tramp, for the Slummers, their res- 
ponse would be: “ Y-es, oh yes, of course.” But how is 
Christ going to save them in the very face of Selfishness, 
Indifferentism — that are “lifting up the horn ” into the very 
heavens, and grasping after possession of the whole earth, 
making a ladder of human blood and bones by which to 
ascend ? 

Booth, that Christ-Jesus-like man, and his wonderful wife 
and their Salvation Army, are down in Slumdom, and a few 
self-denying souls, who ‘ ‘ have not counted their lives dear 
unto them ; ’ ’ but do you suppose anybody who talks about 
the scum ever goes down where the Vesuvius of alcohol has 
poured down his burning lava, and scorched to death, the 
poor quivering souls ? I trow not. 

Slumdom, like Pompeii, has to be exhumed, dug out with 
patient pick-axe, and every unit of that ‘Sunken Tenth,’ 
must be hand-picked, slowly oftimes, and with prayers and 
tears — yes, and with desperate struggles with cringing, 
shrinking despair. Love goes down into Slumdom; she is its 
sole friend. 

Ye churches! What are you doing? Are you supporting 


At Last. 


45 


the traffic in alcohol, and daring to go to the Lord’s Table on 
Sunday to commemorate the undying, the infinite love of 
the Christ, who died for each — all ? Are you hesitating, are 
you refusing to unite as one, to annihilate the most terrible 
evil the world has ever seen ? Are you doing this for gain ? 
Beware! You will yet find yourselves in the “ Gold Mines ” 
of the “ Inferno,” “ descending to the fourth steep ledge,” 
where “not all the gold that is beneath the moon, or ever 
hath been, of these toil-worn souls, might purchase rest for 
one.” 

‘ ‘ What is the weightiest question of to-day ? ’ ’ 

“ It is how to get those people out of Pompeii — Slumdom, 
and to prevents others from going down there and becoming 
petrefacts. Now, how shall we do this ? Shall we open a 
Ruby on every corner in Slumdom, and have Trap Lanes 
radiating like a honey-comb through the dismal region? 
And shall we set up troughs at principal points and fill them 
with rum, whiskey, gin, brandy, beer, cider, and place a 
trough-tender at each with tin cups, and let the miserable men 
and women — aye, and the children drink f So long as they 
have a sou — then kick them out, and bid them ‘move on.’ 
And should they say ‘ where ? into the lake ? ’ Will you 
reply ‘ yes, yes, anywhere, only get out of the way ! ’ I 
exaggerate? I paint a horrible picture? Would that I 
possessed a Faust and Wilhelm Meister pen or the tragic 
pencil of a Gustav Dore, that I might portray in the tints of 
woe, and death, and ruin, and broken hearts, the environ- 
ment and the clientele of the Ruby and its allies. ‘ It stood 
on a corner,’ I said. It was Janus-faced. It was not like 


4 6 


At Last . 


‘Mr. Facing Bothways’ — it was more. It was Mr. Facing 
Allways. Its Argus-eye pierced every human horizon, and 
penetrated to the depths of every pocket. Gold was its 
aim. It lived for gold. Souls ? Bah! What are they to 
us ? If people want to drink, let um. Let the people be 
free! It’s not our fault. They will drink , so we may just 
as well have their money — if we don’ t, somebody else will. 

The Ruby was ‘ ‘ first class, ’ ’ with a back-door leading 
into Trap Lane, the main street in Slumdom, which des- 
cended to Hell Gate Brewery.* 

There were no mansions, nor villas, nor residences on 
Trap Lane, nor its radiating lanes, only hovels. Any hour 
of the day or night one would see human ruins tangle-leg- 
ging up and down in the various stages that end in “tight,” 
whatever that means. Now and then a tangle-legger was 
‘ * hustled ’ ’ into a hovel at the sight of a baton turning 
a corner; but frequently he was caught — but where to put 
him ? what on earth to do with him ? 

The Christian Government had issued licenses to sell alco- 
hol. “Revenue, you know, must be had.” The people 
got drunk, and the Christian Government must, as in duty 
bound, look after tangle-leggers and worse. So the Mer- 
cers were built, and a Black Maria set up. All this 
outlay of money to keep these Slummers from the throat of 
society. Yes, it is true. The Colossus, the beast, that Neb- 
uchednezzar “set up,” is standing yet, rules the Gentile 
period, and the end-time of it is not yet. 

* There is a brewery of this name in the United States. I have taken the lib- 
erty of borrowing its name. 


At Last 


47 


Women were seen in Trap Lane, reeling on unsteady feet, 
girls wandered there in hopeless misery, little children, head- 
bare, foot-bare, ragged, unkempt, carried jugs of beer there, 
or tried to get father or mother, sometimes both home. 
Home ? Of course, these people did not march out in a body ! 
Exclusiviana would have turned up its fastidious nose, and 
the Toronto Wittenagemote would have been called to order 
in no time. 

The Ruby fa$ade fronted Broad Boulevard, and at night, 
under its electric lights, one saw the glitter of its gilding, its 
plate-glass, its pictures, its luxurious carpets, hangings, 
tapestries, silver-plate and polished crystal. There were 
private chambers, where the professional man, the student, 
the artist, the bank-clerk or other clerk, the merchant, the 
traveler could enjoy each other’s society ov.er a bottle of 
Burgundy, or Chateau Margaux or Lacrymae Christi, 
when it was genuine, or indulge in a “ B. S.” or an “ S. 
C. ’ ’ or a “ G. C. T. ” or some other elegant concoction 
with a musical name, and play a * ‘ quiet rubber ’ ’ for 
“ trifling sums you know.” 

The down-grade began under such refined environment, 
that no one dreamed of the “ biting serpent,” the “ sting- 
ing adder,” the back-door, Slumdom, Trap Lane and ruin. 
How could this refined enjoyment in the society of high- 
breeding, end in tangle-leg ? 

Impossible! You are a cra?ik to suggest such a thing. 
What right have you to tell a man what he ought to drink ? 
Grapes and rye and barley and buckwheat and hops and 
juniper and poppies and wormwood grow. Why ? Granted, 


4 8 


At Last. 


friend. And the deadly Upas-tree and the nightshade 
grow, and God made arsenic, and strychnine! 

“ We become drunkards? Ha, ha, ha! We know how 
much to drink, when to stop.” But your one bottle has 
become two — three! Why did not the people in Trap Lane 
stop? The Ruby turned out “first-class” work — none 
better. No saloon could show finer “redness of eyes,” 

‘ ‘ woes, ” “ babblings, ” “ cups of trembling, ’ ’ and its gout 
and carbuncles were simply beyond compare. 

“Father, I wish I had the money it cost to color your 
nose,” cried a poor boy, who wanted to study, but there 
was nothing to pay with. To how many of the fathers of 
the Ruby might the same words be addressed, who shall 
attempt to say ? 

My little hero had disposed of his evening papers, and 
was walking down Broad Boulevard, and just as he reached 
the Ruby, he saw little Bald6ra Trueman whisk round the 
corner. He turned and ran after her down the street that 
extended along the east side of the building, and into a 
court-yard, on one side of which is the back-door entrance 
to the Ruby, on the other, the gate which opens into Trap 
Lane. He overtook her at this door. 

‘ ‘ Where are you going, Baldera ? ’ ’ 

“ To try and get father to go home! Mother has been 
crying all the afternoon, and I thought she would feel 
better if I brought father home. ’ ’ 

“I will go in with you. You ought not to go there 
alone. Are you not afraid ? ” 

“ Not now. I used to be afraid, at first, Harry, but I 


At Last. 


49 


have got over all that for poor mother’s sake. Do you 
know Harry, I can not understand it at all, but I feel it, 
there are things so awful, you forget to be afraid.” 

Twenty years ago Alexander Trueman was a gold- 
medalist of Toronto University, and one of the most brill- 
iant barristers of the bar. None could plead with such 
overwhelming eloquence. Judge, jury, counsel, prisoner, 
were all fascinated with his sarcasm, his esprit and woe to 
the witness inclined to labyrinthine answers, when he cross- 
questioned. 

Mr. Trueman had married a noble, cultured Toronto 
maiden, whom he truly loved, and whom he intended to 
care for. He frequented the Ruby to meet fellow-lawyers, 
and other friends, and, over a glass of wine, to discuss some 
new and important case, or the new entanglement of some 
imprudent and blundering politician. But the one doubled 
itself, till five bottles had been seen under his chair at a 
public banquet. Toronto can witness “ if I lie.” 

Now came tremblings, head-burnings, heart-burnings, 
delirium tremens, till his very soul was worn threadbare 
with sin, as well as his body and his garments, so that he 
was metaphorically kicked from the state entrance to the 
Ruby, and in his unceasing crave for drink, he slunk to the 
backdoor, he, who like a king in person as in intellect, had 
commanded in every environment. He would have ended 
in a Trap Lane hovel, in the heart of Slumdom, had not 
his noble wife kept him in a respectable street and in com- 
fort, ironed till she was in danger of evaporating, and his 
poor young daughter went carrying home the baskets of 


At Last. 


5 ° 


shirts and collars that the wife’s poor, trembling hands had 
learned to iron. 

God help such wives and mothers! Oh, it is a bleeding 
pity that man can be so hard, so cruel, and for the miserable 
crave and craze for gold will wreck the body and the soul 
of his brother. 

Harry and Bald£ra went into that bar-room. I would as 
soon attempt to picture to you the realism of Dante’s 
Inferno, as to portray the horrors of that bar-room. A bar- 
tender was serving brandy, rum, gin, whiskey, and what 
besides? Some took their “horn,” — “bitters,” “straight” — 
nearly all. One poor wretch, shaking as if he had St. 
Vitus’ Dance, stood looking at a man who had paid for a 
glass of brandy and was lifting it to his lips, when his hand 
was arrested in mid-air.” 

“A’ n’t you goin’ to treat me? I ha’ n’t got no more 
money, I’ve pawned every blessed thing to my wife’s wed- 
ding-ring, and I’m burning in here” — pressing the poor, 
trembling hand to his chest — “ for God’s sake give me a 
drink.” 

Bald6ra stood by the door, Harry at her side, and looked 
around that hellish den. Poor Trueman had evidently 
drunk his liquor “neat,” and it had gone “straight” 
down his throat. He was lying on the floor, in a corner, 
dead drunk! It is not a polite expression, my dear. I 
know it. But I am not talking of Dante’s Paradiso, nor of 
roses. We will just look this thing “ square in the face.” 
You see no trace of a gold medal about that miserable 
prostrate form. No, no! that is only clay. God! Is that 


At Last. 


51 


thing a man 9 What put him there 9 Answer me without 
flinching, ye who sold those infernal drinks. No brew from 
witches’ cauldron was ever so deadly. What will you do 
when you stand before another ‘ ‘ Bar, ’ ’ not the bar of any 
Ruby ? 

Poor Bald£ra stood and gazed. She looked as if she had 
been turned to marble. 

“We can not get father out like that,” she said in a 
hoarse whisper. 

“ No, I am afraid not,” whispered Harry. 

“What shall I do ? Poor mother! ” 

One of the half-drunken wretches standing near, turned 
at the sound of child-voices, and recognized Harry. 

“By Jove!” he cried; “ if here a’ n’t that little cursed, 
white-faced saint Molada! Come on my young Puritan! 
Have a glass! I’ll stand treat. Hello there! a glass of 
brandy — hie — straight — hie, and be quick about it. ’ ’ And 
he seized Harry’s arm, and dragged him toward the bar. 

Bald6ra disappeared like a flash, and, opening the door, 
let Don Pedro in. 

“ Let go of my arm,” said Harry; “ I do not drink.” 

“Oh, you ‘ do-not-drink,’ eh? Ha, ha! P 11 make you 
drink; I’ll pour it down your throat.” 

Some laughed and cried “go it!” and some “shame! 
shame! ” and the bar- tender began to look nervous, but he 
could not offend his customers — of course not — that meant 
money! 

The man took up the glass. “ Drink! ” he said. 

Don Pedro uttered a low, threatening growl. 


52 


At Last. 


“Still Don Pedro!” said Harry, patting the dog. “I 
warn you, Mr. Drinkdregs, if you make another move with 
that glass, or use any violence, Don Pedro will kill you.” 

The man held him by the collar, but stood still; Harry 
kept his hand on his dog. In the meantime, Bald6ra had 
run to Broad Boulevard, in search of help, when she saw 
Dr. Glenavon coming toward her. 

“Oh, Dr. Glenavon,” she said breathlessly, “quick! 
quick ! They are trying to force Harry to drink in the back 
bar-room of the Ruby!” Imagine the scene, as Dr. 
Glenavon suddenly stood under the open door. 

‘ * Hands off ! That boy belongs to God. ” Every horror- 
stricken face turned toward the speaker — the glass fell 
shattered to the floor. 

“God! He never comes here,” groaned one. “No, 
that he don’t,” muttered another. 

“Jesus Christ came to save the lost. He would save you 
from the accursed drink, if you would let him,” said Dr. 
Glenavon. “ See, this poor little girl came to take her 
father home. Could you not let her and her friend go in 
peace ? ’ * 

The two men who had cried “shame!” came forward, 
and helped poor Trueman, who had been somewhat roused 
from his drunken stupor by the noise, to go out. 

“If there were only some shade hereabout,” said Dr. 
Glenavon. 

‘ ‘ Shade ? ” At the Ruby ? The Ruby did not provide 
“shade.” Fire-burning- thirst, yes, but customers must 
find their own “shade.” 


At Last. 


53 


“Call a cab, Harry, and we will take poor Trueman and 
Baldera home. Oh, thou monster, thou Demon Selfish- 
ness! ” he soliliquized as he waited. “But for thee, this 
ruinous traffic in alcohol might cease. Poor friend! What 
has made the difference between thee and me?” 

I can not close this chapter without reminding my readers 
that this ‘ ‘ brandy quarrel ’ ’ began almost at the threshold of 
the history of Canada. All honor to the memory of Bishop 
Laval, of the race of the great Montmorency family, de- 
scendant of the powerful and stern Constable of France, 
Anne de Montmorency, who demanded total prohibition 
with unyielding firmness. He excommunicated all those 
engaged in the abhorred traffic, and, not only he, but the 
clerical party in Quebec, demanded that the sale of brandy 
should be made a capital offence. And in fact, death was 
decreed, and two men were shot, and one whipped for sell- 
ing brandy to Indians. Selfishness prevented his wise de- 
sign, for the sale of brandy was a source of great profit to 
the fur-traders, and Laval’s party was defeated. 


CHAPTER V. 


TINTERN ABBEY. 


“ De Profundis.” 

“ Nel lago del cuore.’ 


INTERN ABBEY was the country-seat of Judge Under- 



1 hill. It was situated in a large park of oaks, beeches, 
maples, and evergreens, on the shore of Lake Ontario, and 
within agreeable driving distance from Toronto. Thirty years 
had brought the trees and lawns to a fair growth — some of the 
trees were aborigines — and the house, like its ivy-grown 
namesake, built of gray stone, had thrown over itself a hint 
of that nameless softness of tint, that age alone can produce. 

The approach to the house was by a winding all6e of 
silver maples and sweet limes, interspersed with large boxes 
and urns, containing the ilex, the pomegranate, the olive, 
orange and lemon trees, the lovely passion flower, one 
precious Edelweiss, brought from the Tyrol, and one caught 
glimpses, now and again, of a statue or a bust, or a fountain, 
and countless festoons of roses, trellised from tree to tree, 
like that lovely Villa Wolkonski in Rome. 

In the winter season the great conservatories at Tintern 
Abbey, were a rich treat, graced, not only with the exotics 
I have already mentioned, but with many others from all 
parts of the world. The main entrance was on the east 


At Last. 


55 


side; th'e south and west front faced the lake, and a double 
veranda extended around these sides, the pillars of which were 
entwined with clematis, sweet-honeysuckle, bitter-sweet, and 
roses. To the south a point of land stretched some distance 
into the lake, called the Poets’ Corner, from its being 
adorned with statues and busts of some of the world’s 
crowned poets, and three allies, the Dante, the Schiller, 
and Goethe all6e, led out to its extremity, which was 
beautified with a charming Tuscan Temple, the Doria, a 
summer study, furnished with choice books, a piano and 
harp. In summer the air was laden with the perfumes of 
the south. There grew vanilla-sweet, scarlet and gold 
orchids, niphetos, Grand Duke Jasmine, roses in luxuriance, 
from the rich, deep crimson, to the delicate white Malmaison 
rose, with its soft inner blush, the luscious tuba-rose, the 
snowy guelder rose, helitrope and violet, the flaming pome- 
granate, and the pale and deeper tinted passion flower. 
The spicery and the glamor of Italy and Spain lingered in 
countless blooms, in shrub and tree-top, and the tremolo of 
some wood-bird gave life to the stillness, disturbed only by 
the lapping of the waves. The entire water-front was 
terraced, and strengthened by an embankment of solid 
masonry. Steps descended from the Poets’ Corner to a 
pier, to which a boat, like a Venice barchetta — not a gon- 
dola, for that is always black, and enclosed like a wee room 
— with its pink and white striped awning, was waiting for 
use. The western side of the park was terraced from the 
lake to its extremity. Each terrace was a garden of ex- 
quisite flowers, bordered by sweet limes, the tops trained to 


56 


At Last. 


interlace, so that one walked under an extended Gothic arch 
of living green. The upper terrace was the Wilderness, with 
a labyrinth, rocks, caves, and on the highest point stood an 
Ionic Temple, in the centre of which was a fine statue of 
Shakespeare, who enthroned as the King of Poets, surveyed 
the entire domain. Beyond lay the Tintern Abbey farm, 
which included a beautiful wood, and the streamlet Princess 
Ilse went serpentining through. 

Mrs. Underhill was the designer of this Canadian Palavi- 
cini, and it was a faint reflection of her highly-cultivated 
mind and taste, broadened by much foreign travel. Judge 
Underhill was a man of stately dignity on the bench, and 
his penetrating eye seemed to read counsel, jury and witness 
through and through; but in his own home he was the 
embodiment of genial kindness, and the highest breeding. 
He was a good husband, and a good father, an universal 
favorite, and little children approached him in perfect trust. 

Judge and Mrs. Underhill were people of the world, and 
had not yet learned the true aim and purpose of life. Mrs. 
Underhill was a leader of fashion, though not its slave, and 
an idol of Toronto society. But Sorrow paid a visit to their 
lovely home. Five coffins forced their way unbidden to the 
great garden-drawing-room in a single week. Diptheria 
was the Fate that cut the thread of life and bore the five 
home- treasures to God’s acre, and Mrs. Underhill sat down 
childless, in sullen and rebellious despair. 

Mrs. Molada brought to her friend the sympathy of a 
large heart, moved and filled with the true Christ-spirit, and 
sought, while comforting, to point her friend to the life of 


At Last. 


57 


higher latitudes, the life of love; she endeavored to show 
her the sweet Christ, with all His tender pity and love. But 
Mrs. Underhill could not see. She said it was cruel of God 
to rob her of her children. She could not live without them. 
God did not need them. He might have let her keep them 
her life through. He had so much, all joy, and he had 
made her wretched, had left her nothing. 

Husband? Home? Great talents to do good work for 
God and humanity ? These were left. The gifts of God 
were his to take when he chose. That he loved his creatures, 
and could only do what would bring good to them, if the 
soul would but see his true character. 

In vain, Mrs. Underhill did not want the work. Her 
children were hers, and she neither saw nor felt the love. 
“All things shall work together for good to them that love 
God,” brought her no ray of hope or comfort, for she did 
not “love God.” The struggle was long and bitter, and 
Mrs. Molada could not be sure that her words had made 
any impression. But, one day, asking her friend if she 
could not see light? — see the Way of Faith? — Mrs. Under- 
hill grasped her arm in much excitement, literally shaking 
her, and cried: “ Mrs. Molada, where is God? I can not 
find him. I pray, but I speak only into empty air — there is 
nothing there — there is no one to hear. Oh , show me God! ’ * 

Mrs. Molada had her answer. Her heart was filled with 
a holy joy. She rejoiced in her friend’s agony. She knew 
what the end would be. A few days after this touching, 
thrilling interview, it was announced that that great soul- 
helper, the Rev. Mr. Moody, would hold services in Toronto. 


58 


At Last. 


Mrs. Molada hastened to Tintern Abbey, and asked Mrs. 
Underhill if she would accompany her to one of these ser- 
vices. 

“ Oh,” cried she, “ I will go anywhere, where I can find 
God.” 

Accordingly day and hour were fixed for a service, and 
they went early in order to secure seats. 

Mr. Moody, as God had directed him, took for his subject 
how to find Christ, and in his simple, inimitable way, told 
the soul-saving story of the Cross, and the direct road to it. 
During the first half of the sermon, Mrs. Underhill wept 
passionately, so that her friend feared she would lose all 
self-control; then she grew perfectly still. Mr. Moody 
closed with a short, but a wonderful prayer, and then they 
sang: 

“ Beloved, now are we the sons of God,” and then: 

4 4 1 shall be satisfied when I awake with thy likeness, ’ ’ 
and Mr. Moody pronounced the benediction. 

Immediately Mrs. Underhill turned to her friend, seized 
her by both hands, exclaiming: 

“Oh, Mrs. Molada, I see it all now! It is all right! / 
feel tike a new woman! ’ * 

And she looked it; her face was radiant, and her whole 
form radiated the interior light and joy. She was literally 
transformed. 

I have related in these few words exactly as it happened, 
the story of the birth of a soul into Christ. But who shall 
tell the never-ending results of that new birth, not only to 
that individual soul, but to the universe? Stupendous 


At Last. 


59 


thought! A saved soul! If one only knew what the soul 
is in its entirety, or its possibilities and potentialities! The- 
ology can not tell. Psychology can not scale its heights, nor 
fathom its deepest depths, for its Godlike. Could one com- 
prehend, in all its woe and horror, that “ wail” — the mean- 
ing of a lost soul ! — the effects of such a loss upon the 
universe! Incomprehensible mystery! But God teaches, 
the holy soul — I mean the Christian sunk in Christ- Jesus — 
something of these awful mysteries, and such a God taught 
one will be always reaching out the helping-hand to those 
groping in the night, and not finding the light. 

But Mrs. Molada knew the snares and traps set for the 
downfall of the newly-born-soul, and she warned her friend 
that Satan would attack her very soon, and attempt to 
persuade her that the whole thing was but a fraud, a hal- 
lucination, a self-deception. She counselled her to begin 
some work forthwith for the King, and thus her strength 
would grow. 

Mrs. Molada was an enthusiastic worker in the Toronto 
Home for Incurables, and at the time of which I speak, 
there were three very great sufferers there, all Maggies, and 
all friends of Jesus. 

One, dear Maggie Robinson, is still lying on her sixteen- 
years-couch of pain, a sunbeam on her countenance, and 
peace within. Maggie Begg was near death, and Mrs. 
Molada invited Mrs. Underhill to accompany her on one of 
her frequent visits to the Home. Maggie was a remarkable 
Christian, never losing the clear consciousness of the 
presence of Christ. She lived in touch with the Master. 


6o 


At Last. 


They sat down by her bed for a little talk and a few 
promises. 

“ Is Jesus as precious as ever, Maggie ? ” inquired Mrs. 
Molada. 

The reply filled them both with inexpressible awe. 

“Oh, Mrs. Molada,” Maggie said, “Christ is as really 
near me now as you are, nearer. He touches me, my 
hand is in his, as truly as I put it in yours,” and she 
grasped her hand. 

Mrs. Molada prayed a short prayer. 

“Good-bye, Maggie! If you see Jesus when you go, 
tell him — though he knows, I do so wish to send the mes- 
sage by you — tell him I am coming.” 

“ I will tell him, I will tell him! I shall see him! And, oh, 
I will be the first to meet you at Heaven’s gate when you 
come. You told me all that Jesus would be to me. I have 
proved its truth. Good-by! dear Mrs. Molada.” That 
night the weary eyes saw the “ King in his beauty.” 

To poor Maggie Kerr, dying of consumption, Mrs. 
Molada gave a white lily, and how the dear girl cherished 
that flower, begging the patients for water to refresh it. 
Poor dear girl ! She too is with the Saints in Light. 

On their home-drive, Mrs. Underhill remarked: “Maggie 
Begg has something more than I have; I could not die like 
that, and I do not live ‘ ‘ in touch ’ ’ with God as she does, 
as you do; I am afraid of God, but not of Jesus. How is 
this?” 

“ ‘ God is love,’ ” replied Mrs. Molada; “ He gave His 
son; Jesus Christ is God — is love. ‘ Herein is love, not 


At Last. 


61 


that we loved God, but that He loved us, and gave His son 
to be a propitiation for our sins, and not for ours only, but 
also for the sins of the whole world.’ ‘ He that spared not 
His own son; but delivered Him up for us all, how shall He 
not with Him also freely give us all things ? ’ God’s law is 
broken, Christ, the God-man is the ‘ propitiation. ’ God is 
holiness itself, and sin can never be in harmony with holi- 
ness, but Christ takes away the sin. It is like this; do you 
not recollect, when a little child, if you had done anything 
displeasing to your mother, you were afraid, and could not 
run to meet her with the same free gladness ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I begin to see what you mean. God loves the sinner 
always, hating sin only.” 

“ The life-blood of Jesus, the Son, washes away the 
guilt of sin. That is highly figurative. It means that 
His life was given for your life, for mine, forfeited by 
sin, and you live. I can not tell you all that the atone- 
ment means. It means infinitely more than the finite 
mind can comprehend. But it means this much at least — 
At-one-ment with God. He hates sin, I also, if I am His 
child. He loves all souls, without respect of oersons, I too, 
bathed in the Christ-spirit. ” 

Yes, I see; that is clear to me now. Now, how am I 
to live in touch, in perfect harmony with God always ? ’ ’ 

“ You have taken a new Sovereign,” said Mrs. Molada, 

* ‘ you have thrown off allegiance to ‘ the Devil and all his 
works,’ and now you will seek to please your King and 
serve Him truly and faithfully. There is the idea of sep- 
aration you see. Paul says in Romans i- 1 , ‘ Paul, a servant 


62 


At Last. 


of Jesus Christ, called to be an apostle, separated unto the 
gospel of God.’ This separation implies, nay, demands 
self-renouncement, and world-renouncement. God, for 
Christ’s sake, has forgiven you, you are His, consecrate all 
you have to Him, and do good to all you can, in every way 
you can.” 

“ How shall I begin ? ” 

“ First, make the consecration. Next, do something for 
somebody. Visit the Incurables. Give them a promise. 
Pray with them. Comfort them. Take some flowers with 
you. And this, not because of any imagined merit in thus 
doing, but because you love. ’ ’ 

“ I see what you mean. Will God accept that ‘ do ’ and 
mike me quite, all his own ? ” 

“If you give yourself, He takes you, accepts you. Do 
you believe God ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, I do!” 

“You want to be all His, you want His Holy Spirit to 
lead you ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Has He promised the Holy Spirit to those who ask 
Him?” 

“ I do not, alas, know my Bible as I ought, but I take 
your word that He has promised that.” 

“ God’s word, not mine. Now, you want God, and He 
says He will be yours, He will give what you ask, He says 
so.” 

“ I believe He will.” 

“Very well. Now for the promises. The first you will 


At Last. 


63 


find in John xiv-13-14. Jesus says: ‘ And whatsoever ye 
shall ask in my name, that will I do, that the Father may 
be glorified in the Son; If ye shall ask anything in my 
name, I will do it.’ ” 

“What a marvellous promise! ‘ Whatsoevei ! * ‘Any- 
thing! ’ I never saw it so before. But is that sure ?” 

“ God says so. Here is the condition of answer — of re- 
ceiving. It is in the next chapter. John xv-7. ‘ If ye 

abide in me, and my" words abide in you, ye shall ask what 
ye will, and it shall be done unto you.’ Now if I abide in 
Christ, and he in me, the Holy Spirit will teach me how to 
pray. God never yet promised to answer a selfish prayer. 
Selfishness is sin. It is not self-seeking, but Christ-seeking 
that God loves.” 

“And yet I have doubted God! ” 

“And made him a liar! Just listen to this, the third 
promise, it is in i John-v-14-15. ‘And this is the confidence 
that we have in him, that, if we ask anything according to 
his will , he heareth us: And if we know that he hear us, 
whatsoever we ask, we know that we have the petitions that 
we desired of him.’ ” 

“ That is like the setting of the royal seal, ‘ we know,’ ” 
said Mrs. Underhill. “Oh, how wonderful! I give myself 
and all beside, now, I take Christ forever as absolute 
King.” 

The work was done. With a glad heart Mrs. Molada 
mounted the stairs to her rooms in Free street, and Mrs. 
Underhill drove to Tintern Abbey in an extasy. She had 
taken in the extent of the work to be done. She had 


6 4 


At Last . 


offered the sacrifice — had put her hand in the hand of 
Christ. That was settled forever. 

The first fruits of her entire consecration was the soul of 
her husband. She loved now to serve the poor and neg- 
lected, and nothing was too good for the Master’s use. To 
her now, ‘to live was Christ,’ and when she had learned her 
lesson, and taken God' s will for her will , and taken up the 
cross as her true life-work, God gave her a daughter, whom 
she named Gabrielle, as a direct gift and messenger from 
him. 

One evening near the time of the opening of our true 
story, Judge and Mrs. Underhill and little Gabrielle were 
sitting in the barchetta, enjoying the coolness of the water, 
for the day had been warm. Suddenly Gabrielle cried: 

“ Papa, I want you to do something for me! Will 
you?” 

“ What is it, Gowan ? ” 

“ Promise first, papa.” 

“ Nay, nay! You would not have me be so imprudent.” 

Gabrielle was a child of a rare type of loveliness. Long 
curls of pure gold hair, peach complexion, so seldom seen, 
large brown eyes, clear as a mountain spring, beautiful 
forms, a voice that gave promise of great vocal powers; but, 
more than all, a sweetness of character, which made her a 
general favorite, especially with the servants and the poor. 

Judge Underhill loved this young daughter with all the 
fervor of a deep nature. 

“ Papa, poor dear Mrs. Molada’s piano and organ are to 
be sold at auction to-morrow: will you buy them in ? ” 


At Last. 65 

“Why, Gowan! what can you want with them, pray? 
You have already a piano, organ and harp — 

“And a lute, papa, and a Jew’s harp.” 

“ I suppose my Gowan has some new plan sur le tapis. 
What do you think, Cherie ?” inquired the Judge of his 
wife. 

“ I have no doubt that Gabrielle’s plan is a good one,” 
replied Mrs. Underhill; “ but she has not yet taken me into 
her confidence.” 

“ Some Laune , I should imagine.” 

“You will, papa? ” 

“Yes, yes, Gowan, you shall have them bought.” So 
Judge Underhill sent a young law-student to “ bid in ” the 
Donthank piano and organ. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE CHILDREN’S FESTA. 

“ Come to me, O ye children! 

For I hear you at your play, 

And the questions that perplexed me 
Have vanished quite away. 

Ye open the eastern windows, 

That look towards the sun, 

Where thoughts are singing swallows, 

And the brooks of morning run. 

Ah! what would the world be to us 
If the children were no more ? ” 

W HEN the strawberry season had just touched that of 
the raspberries, it was the custom of Judge and 
Mrs. Underhill to give a festa or fete to all the poor children 
of Toronto, and to Gabrielle, this was the most joyous of all 
summer festivities. The charities for children, the poor 
children from the destitute families, the newsboys, were 
bidden, and the clergy of all denominations, and other 
friends, were invited to assist in entertaining and taking care 
of the children. This summer the children’s festa was* to 
grace Dominion Day, and the preparations had begun. 

Mrs. Underhill and Gabrielle had been busily engaged 
decorating the Doria with floral designs, had played a duet 


At Last. 67 

on the piano, and Gabrielle was practising her lesson on the 
harp. 

“ Ma m&re ,” said Gabrielle, interrupting her practice, 
“the Moladas are coming n’est ce pas f ” 

“ Certainly, ma miette, if Mrs. Molada is able. She was 
too poorly to go to Dr. Glenavon’s birthday festa; but the 
weather is warmer now. I will send the carriage for her 
and Harry early in the morning.” 

“But Harry said he would come with the newsboys. Do 
you know why I asked papa to buy the Donthank piano 
and organ ? ’ ’ 

* ‘ I fancy I know. ’ ’ 

“ Do you ? Well, after the Moladas are come, will you 
give orders that the two instruments be taken to their 
rooms ? Oh, will not Harry be surprised ? — and glad ? He 
will never guess who sent them. ’ ’ 

“ Mrs. Trueman will have the key, as she does up the 
rooms when they are out, so there will be no difficulty.” 

* ‘ Out, ma mtre , and see, I have printed this little note, 
address and all, because they must never know who sent 
them. And please send those two pretty shades that I 
bought with my pocket-money, for the gasalier, will you ? ” 

“Yes, darling, you shall have all as you desire in this 
matter. ’ ' 

The little note ran thus: — “A true friend sends Harry 
Molada the Donthank piano and organ, that he need no 
longer neglect his music. Never seek to discover the 
Sender. ’ ’ 

Dominion Day came with perfect weather. Rain had 


68 


At Last. 


fallen the day previous, laying all the dust; but at Tintern 
Abbey there never was any dust. Trees, flowers, lawns, 
leaping fountains, the smiling, shimmering lake, the boats 
and steamers, had clad themselves in gala-dress, to honor 
the birth-day of Canadian Unity, and to welcome and 
gladden these dear poor children, into whose lives came so 
little gladsomeness. A steamer had been chartered for the 
day, to convey the children, who assembled at the foot of 
Yonge street, under the care of officers appoinred for the 
purpose, and to make the trip every two hours for the con- 
venience of helping friends. 

Mrs. Underhill sent the carriage for Mrs. Molada and 
Harry directly after breakfast, and the moment they arrived, 
Gabrielle seized upon Harry, and the two children set off to 
inspect the preparation of the tables. 

“Do you know, Harry,” said Gabrielle, “you are my 
‘ Round-Table- Knight ’ to-day ? ” 

“And you my ‘Kilkenny,’ ” replied the delighted boy. 
“You look as if you had been in Fairyland.” 

A clear case, you see, of Dante and Beatrice. 

Long lines of tables, draped in the snowiest white, were 
being laid. Mountains of strawberries and choice flowers 
beautified them. There was to be a dinner at one o’clock, 
and tea at six, just giving time to have the children all safely 
back in Toronto before nightfall. Several bands, and 
amusements of all sorts had been provided. Judge and 
Mrs. Underhill, Mrs. Molada and the two children stood on 
the great lawn, between the house and the Poets’ Corner, 
and their freinds and the children, gathered around them. 


At Last. 69 

What a scene it was! What a joy in the faces of the 
children ! 

When the newsboys approached in a body, Harry ran to 
meet them, and walked with them to the place of reception. 
Many of Toronto’s noblest were there that day. Mayor 
Mowbank soon found himself in the midst of the children, 
who all knew him — all the poor and troubled knew him. 
Toronto little guessed all that her Mayor was doing sub 
rosa } for the miserable. 

Among the clergy came Pastor Glenavon of the Fleur-de- 
lis , and the stately Dr. Knox, who thought “ there would 
be no lack of parsons to-day.” When all stood around the 
tables under the delicious trees, the bands played the Dox- 
ology, and the grand old melody, and the golden words 
that have belted the world and thrilled millions, rose against 
the heavens, and died away over Lake Ontario. 

Little did Luther imagine the extent of his work, and 
little does any worker know the tremendous importance of 
every polishing rub given to the stones, the living stones of 
the Temple of Christ. The chiselling, and the polishing do 
not manifest themselves readily, and many a worker has 
toiled on a life-time, never guessing the immeasurable 
results. Take courage. Der Tag der Garben , — The Day 
of Sheaves — shall reveal thy labor. 

As Mrs. Underhill looked about her, and moved with her 
husband past the tables, and looked into those child-faces, 
and saw there the pain and neglect written on them, a vision 
rose before her of the Christ-Child, and the awful mystery 
of pain — sorrow. And her heart throbbed to reflect that 
she had been admitted as a co-worker. 


70 


At Last 


Dinner over, Judge Underhill told them how glad he, and 
his wife, and daughter were to see so many happy faces at 
this festa. He hoped they would all grow up to be good 
men and women. There was only one way to be good — 
only one who could give strength to be good. He, the 
Christ, loved children, for he was once a child. He would 
always hear their prayers. How good it was for every boy 
and girl to know this. 

Gabrielle and her Knight had been going up and down 
among the tables, and when Judge Underhill had finished 
speaking, there was a general movement among the news- 
boys. They all rose and came forward, calling “Molada! 
Molada!” Harry came bravely forward and said, saluting 
the host and hostess: 

“Dear Judge and Mrs. Underhill, the newsboys have 
elected me, because I am the smallest newsboy in Toronto, 
to offer you our thanks for this festa. We thank, also, very 
much, the ladies and gentlemen who are here to help us 
enjoy this festival. We propose three cheers for Judge and 
Mrs. Underhill, and Miss Gabrielle.’ ’ And the newsboys 
cheered, and everybody joined in, and the tree-tops took it 
up, and the waves echoed the cheering. Then they sang a 
verse that Mrs. Underhill had written for the occasion: 

We thank thee, Lord, for food and friends, 

And all the good that Heaven sends, 

O, may our hearts with praises swell, 

And Christ within us ever dwell. 

At the ringing of the Abbey bell, they were all to assem- 
ble on the great lawn ready for tea. And the company 


At Last . 


7i 


dispersed, some to the wood for the games, some to the 
terraces, and Mayor Mowbank set off with a flock of chil- 
dren, to unravel the labyrinth in the wilderness. There 
were two trees, and two seats in the centre of the labyrinth, 
where those who found their way in first might sit down. 
There Mayor Mowbank sat some time before anyone joined 
him. At length a poor little girl was the first to solve the 
puzzle, and once in, she ran to the Mayor, sprang into his 
lap, and, throwing her arms around his neck, cried: 

“Oh, Mr. Mowbank! I wish I was your little girl!”* 

“Harry, what do you say to being my little Toronto 
agent for my new work ‘ The Will ? ’ I will give you the 
city for the present.’ ’ 

They were already seated in the carraige for the drive 
home, and there was no time for delay. 

‘ ‘And I can begin at once, to-morrow ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes. Here is a note to my publisher, desiring him to 
• deliver any books you may order. ‘ ‘ The Will ’ ’ sells for 
two dollars. You will receive one dollar per copy, and your 
tram -fare. ’ ’ 

“ Thank you very much, Judge Underhill. Mater will 
be obliged to go to a warmer climate for the winter, and I 
shall be able to take her I think. If I only had my piano 
and organ to work at my music, I could add to my income, 
perhaps.” 

The Judge smiled. 

“ Ma mere” whispered Gabrielle as the carriage drove 
away, ‘‘did the piano and organ go ? ” 


* An actual incident. 


7 2 


At Last. 


“ Oui Cherie 

“ Oh, I just wish I could be behind the door and watch 
Harry when he first sees them ! ’ ’ And she danced and 
clappea her hands in glee. 

‘ ‘ Why, Miittercheriy there is a very brilliant light in our 
rooms!” cried Harry. 

“ I fancy good Mrs. Trueman and Baldera are expecting 
us. Depend upon it, they have been making our rooms 
nice.” 

Mrs. Trueman opened the door, and Baldera stood 
smiling. 

“Why! Little Mother! Whatever? — how beautiful those 
shades are! ” Then he espied the piano, which stood open, 
just where his imagination had placed it, and then the 
organ. He flew to the piano, running his fingers over the 
keys, then to the organ, then he espied the printed note. 

* ‘ Whoever has it been ? ’ ’ 

Mrs. Trueman and Baldera could offer no solution of the 
mystery. 

“It has been Lohengrin! I wonder!” — His iace was 
pale with excitement as he hummed the melody of * ‘ The 
Lord is mindful of His own.” “ It is wonderful, M'utier- 
chen! wonderful! Oh, let us sing Little Mother! come!” 
He seated himself at the piano, ran his fingers lightly over 
the keys, and began singing, his eyes gleaming with that 
leaping fire to which I have before referred, “ Oh, for the 
wings of a dove! ” And his whole being seemed to expand 
as the rich voice swelled and rose with the tones. He 
looked back at his mother with that radiant face: 


At Last 


73 


“You are not singing Little Mother! sing, sing! ” And 
the instrument seemed impassioned like the young artist, as 
the melody rose and floated through the open windows into 
the moonlit air. 

Mrs. Molada’s pillow that night was the promise: “ Call 
upon me in the day of trouble; I will deliver thee,” also, 
“ No good thing will He withhold from them that walk 
uprightly.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


A BOY’S CODE— THE ANTI-SIN CLUB. 

“ I was as one, when a forgotten dream 
Doth come across him, and he strives in vain 
To shape it in his fantasy again.” 

H ARRY kept his promise to Max Dorn, and went when 
he could to the Newsboy’s house, to help them with 
their reading, and writing, and “ sums.” He knew all the 
boys now, and had won their hearts, and Don Pedro was 
their delight. The tenth of all his profits, beginning with 
the tenth of Lohengrin’s double-eagle, was carefully kept in 
a box with a slot in the lid, and after much thinking about 
the matter, he had decided it should be used for a News- 
boys’ Hall, with a large lecture-room, and a library and 
reading-room. 

Judge Underhill and Mayor Mowbank had promised him 
to ‘ ‘ see the thing through, ’ ’ and such was the interest 
excited by the lad’s striking personality, his distinctly pro- 
nounced individualism, his manliness and self-reliance and 
his singular history, that when he took Judge Underhill’s 
book to the leading men of the city, they not only took it 
for its excellence, but they seemed to conspire as one to help 
this remarkable child, and they added their names to his 
subscription book for the Newsboys’ Hall. His young soul 


At Last. 


75 


was brimful of enthusiasm for his scheme, and the unselfish- 
ness of it “ took,” and many a One found an incentive, in 
the ardent zeal of a child, for nobler and more persistent 
effort. But my hero had larger plans still. He not only 
resolved that the newsboys should have a large and hand- 
some hall, but, with a true missionary spirit, he wanted them 
“ cured ” of every bad habit. With this idea in his busy, 
inventive young brain, he prepared a card for an Anti-Sin 
union, and I give the card as he thought it out, not willing 
to change a single iota. 

One day he ran into Mrs. Trueman’s rooms to “consult” 
with Bald£ra — to “ask her opinion.” Baby was asleep, 
and Bald6ra was sitting on the stool that Harry had given 
her, rocking the cradle. Mrs. Trueman was at the ironing- 
table. Harry sat down on the floor close by the stool. 

“ Bald£ra,” he said, “ I am making a card for my Anti- 
Sin Club, for the newsboys first, and all others who do 
naughty things — drink and swear. I call it an Anti-Sin 
Club.” 

“Anti-Sin! ” exclaimed Mrs. Trueman. 

“Yes, Mrs. Trueman, because sin includes everything 
wrong, you see.” 

He proceeded to show Bald^ra the plan of his card, 
which he had all written in pencil. “ See, it is like this,” 
he said. 

Mrs. Trueman stopped her ironing and went to look on. 

ANTI-SIN CLUB. 

I. I solemnly promise and vow never to take any 


76 


At Last. 


injurious stimulant, alcohol, or other spirit, such as brandy, 
rum, whisky, gin, wine, champagne, beer, cider, opium, 
absinthe, or any other injurious intoxicating thing, that may 
be invented in the future. 

“ You are very foreseeing Harry,” remarked Mrs. True- 
man, smiling. 

“ Have I omitted anything, Mrs. Trueman ? ” 

“ No. That is pretty comprehensive.” 

“ So I think,” said Bald^ra, giving the cradle an extra 
shake to quiet the restless babe. 

ii. I promise and vow never to take God’s name in vain 
—never to swear that is. 

hi. I promise and vow never to smoke, either a pipe, 
cigar or cigarette. 

iv. I will never chew tabacco, nor take snuff. 

V. I promise always to be exactly honest to a mite. 

“Could you not leave out ‘to a mite,’ Harry?” asked 
Bald6ra. 

“ What do you think, Mrs. Trueman ? ” 

“Yes, I think so.” 

vi. I promise never to tell a lie, always to say the truth, 
nothing else. 

vn. I will never steal. 

vm. I will never say an unkind word to anybody, nor 
of anybody. 

ix. I will help everybody all I can, and do all the good 
I can. 

x. I will never hurt a little child. 

“ That is nice,” thought Bald£ra. 


At Last . 


77 


XI. I will be kind to animals. 

xii. Every morning and night I will pfay to God, and 
read one verse at least in the Bible, or New Testament. 

“You see,” said Harry, “someone might only have the 
New Testament.” 

“That is true,” said Baldera. 

xiii. I will never think wicked thoughts. 

xiv. I will love God, and put Him first always. 

xv. I will love all people, even when they are not nice 
and good. 

‘ ‘ But you could not like their ways , ’ ’ said Baldera. 

“ No! That is true. I only said I would like them. Do 
you see the difference, Baldera? ” 

Baldera looked doubtful. “That is hard to do,” she 
said. 

‘ ‘ Did you think your card all out yourself, Harry ? ’ ’ 
asked Mrs. Trueman. 

‘ ‘ I have had a great many talks with mater, and have 
asked her such a number of questions. Now I will show 
her these rules. If she approves of them, I shall be so glad. ” 

Mrs. Molada approved of the card, and Mrs. Underhill 
had a large number of cards printed, with a beautiful 
border of snow-drops and passion flowers, and a large one 
to hang up in the newsboys’ dining room. The next time 
Harry visited the newsboys, he took his cards, and the first 
thing he did was to hang up the large card in the best light 
in the dining-room. Twenty boys gathered around it forth- 
with, and various observations were heard as to its beauty; 
one boy read one rule, another another. 


78 


At Last. 


“ He’d be a pretty perfect boy who kept them rules,” 
cried Jack Drinkdregs, son of the man who had tried to 
force Harry to drink in the Ruby. 

‘ ‘ There never was no such boy, nor man neither, ’ ’ said 
Mike Ballytara. 

“ Nor woman neither,” said Sam Alive — his mother was 
a drunkard. 

“Nobody couldn’t keep them rules no how; ’tain’t in 
human nater; you bet your life on that ,” cried Bill Penny- 
man in some excitement. 

“It’s all rant!” cried one. “Nothin’, but cant!” 
another. 

Finally Max Dorn spoke out, “ Bill Pennyman is right. 
’Tain’t in ‘ human nater.’ But God told us not to steal or 
swear. What made Him tell us not to, if we cart t obey 
Him ? Don’t He promise to help those who try to be 
good ? ’ ’ 

“ I guess so: I guess I kin prove it! ” replied a quiet boy 
— Adam Hyslop, from New Haven. His dead mother had 
been of the old Puritan stock. The newsboys all respected 
this quiet boy, who was always kind and gentle. “ We all 
know when we do wrong, don’t we?” 

“Yes, that’s right,” cried the boys in a chorus. 

“What makes us know and feel so unhappy when we are 
wicked ? ’ ’ 

“Conscience,” said some. 

“Now, what is conscience? Where did we all get that 
something we call cohscience? ” 

Dead silence. 


At Last . 


79 


“You know, all of you, it comes from God, boys! ” said 
Harry, who had been standing all this time silently by the 
table, on which he had laid his cards, and the copy-books 
which he had taken home for his mother to “set copies.” 

“Will you tell us, Molada, the meaning of the word con- 
science?” asked Hyslop. 

“Yes, I can. My mother explained its etymology to me 
the other day. It comes from two Latin words, con, a 
preposition, with; and scio, a verb, I know. It is the faculty 
of judging ourselves whether we do right or wrong. It is 
God’s writing in every human heart, just as those copies in the 
copy-books are my mother’s writing. God wrote the moral 
law in us. Conscience is God’s voice talking in the soul.” 

“ That’s true, I’ve heerd it! ” said Max Dorn. 

“ Now,” said Hyslop, “ conscience lets us know when we 
do wrong, and we’re often sorry, and think we won’t do it 
again. I said I could prove to you that God had promised 
to help us be good. ‘ Call upon me in the day of trouble, I 
will deliver thee.’ What would God tell us to ‘call,’ to 
pray, for, if he didn’ t mean to hear and help ? ‘ Resist the 

Devil, and he will flee from you: draw nigh to God and He 
will draw nigh to you/ ‘ I will be found of .you. ’ ‘He 
will answer thee/ ‘I will help thee ’ — the very word ‘help.’ ” 

There was a little pause, when Harry took up his cards, 
and, giving each boy one, said: “I am not going to ask 
you to sign them to-night, boys. Think the matter over 
well first. See, each card is made to hang up, like the large 
one, in your room, so that you can always see it, and re- 
member what you have promised to do and not to do.” 


8o 


At Last. 


“ That’s a good ide’,” said Max Dorn. 

“And, boys, I want you to get as many members for our 
Anti-Sin Club as you can.” 

“ I say,” cried Bally tara “ we’ll hang a card round Don 
Pedro’s neck! ” 

‘ ‘ Hurrah for Don Pedro ! ’ ’ cried the boys, “ he’ s a 
member of our club! ” Don Pedro gave his paw to shake 
hands. 

“ That means yes! ” cried the boys. Harry ran home 
with a very happy heart, for his card had won the victory. 

Since the surprise of the Donthank organ and piano, 
Harry’s music had made rapid strides. His Technik was 
Liszt-like in its dawning brilliancy and power, and he 
played with such varied and subtle expression, and his 
conception was so original that one was profoundly moved 
with limitless and incomprehensible visions of an infinity of 
thoughts, emotions and powers, that are always excited by 
good music. And Roma sang gloriously the moment 
Harry struck a chord, and when out of his cage, which he 
frequently was, he would sit on the lyre of the piano, and 
stretch his neck to see where the sounds came from, or he 
would alight on Harry’s hand, or sit on his head, or Mrs. 
Molada’s. What winning ways birdie had, and how he 
loved the music! 

Beethoven was Harry’s favorite, and when he played 
those divine Sonatas, and other works of the king 
of harmonies, one seemed to see one’s inner life pass 
before one, and the thrilling themes awakened corre- 
sponding slumbering melodies and disharmonies of the 


At Last. 


81 


entire gamut of the human soul. One felt as if one could 
accomplish anything under the magic spell of this Beetho- 
venismus. Singularly true is this of the Kaiser Sonata, 
the Eroica, and the Appassionata. 

Seldom is a good Beethovenist also a master of Szopen- 
Chopin. But my boy-disciple of Apollo would play Chopin 
with all the feathery-lightness of a spirit’s touch, of a soul 
that felt and heard the echoing wail and dying moan of 
broken Poland, as Chopin ever heard them — the wail of 
Poland and of Freedom. Probably no one ever did, or 
ever can render Chopin as his most intimate friend Liszt 
did. It is a fact that the maestro Liszt would seat himself at 
the piano and imitate Chopin’s Vortrag so perfectly, that 
one, not knowing, could not distinguish the difference. 
Dear old Meister! With what pride he would say: “J'ai 
regu le baiser celebre /” He had played before Beethoven 
when a little boy, and after the concert, Beethoven had 
kissed him, saying: 

“Du verstekts viich: hilf der Welt mich aitch verstehen 

Mrs. Molada was forbidden to sing much, save to train 
this rare voice, but she would accompany Harry on the 
guitarre, both when he sang and played, and Dr. Glenavon 
frequently glided in at these hours, to sit lost in a rapturous 
reverie, listening to the wondrous strains, and some of his 
best productions were evoked, with their rare richness and 
depth, at these times. 

Oh, Musika! Thy power is boundless! 

The universe is set to music so subtle, so ravishing, that 


*Thou understandest me: help the world to understand me too. 


82 


At Last. 


only when we become pure spirit, possessed of all the 
senses of the “ glorified body,” may we hear thee as thou 
art. Many a pleasant interlude was filled in with musical 
chat. 

Mrs. Molada had visited the last resting-place of nearly 
all the great old composers, and she would picture the tomb 
of Beethoven, with nothing on it except Beethoven in large 
letters of gold — the world needs nothing more, and Schii- 
bert’s grave, next but one to him, adorned with his bust. 
Or Mozart’s gorgeous Denkmal, erected solely at Liszt’s 
expense, above the humble grave in the pauper’s cemetery 
in Vienna. Poor Mozart! Dead so young — and so poor, 
he had not money enough to buy a Sarg or a Grab , he, 
“ Der Konig der Tone .” And then she would discourse 
eloquently of all the living artists whom she had met and 
heard, and of the lonely, white-haired FraQ. Hummel, 
widow of the great composer and pianist, who sleeps in the 
Gottes Aker at Sachse- Weimar. There sleep Goethe and 
Schiller, side by side in the Grand Ducal Gruft. Not far 
from it, Herder, Musaeus, Frail von Stein. 

“ Betty” had known Beethoven, Mozart, Vater Hayden, 
and all the rest of that ilk down, and they had all visited 
her and her husband, and played on his old piano, with legs 
like table-legs, on which he had composed. ‘ Betty’s” 
talk was a perfect romance, as you may well fancy. 

Then there was a reminiscence of lonely Osomansstadt, 
eight miles from Sachse- Weimar, where Wieland sleeps 
under an obelisk. And Mrs. Molada had met Wieland’ s 
granddaughter at one of Liszt’s musical receptions, and had 


At Last. 


83 


afterwards visited her in the “ Wieland Haus, now her 
home, and walked in the dear old Garten, and sat in the 
Lahbe-arbor, where the great author had walked and 
written. And Harry drank this all in with the avidity of a 
traveler. 

“ I have a fancy,” said Mrs. Molada on one of these 
occasions, “that, in the Beyond, we shall have music in 
color as well as in sound- tones. I had a most marvelous 
vision of this, a color symphony, once, when in the beautiful 
Odenwald. We were driving among those romantic, rich- 
in-ruins mountains, and, one day, as the day declined to the 
sun-setting, we reached the summit of the Melibocus. Our 
horses were tired, and we hungry, and we halted for refresh- 
ment. What a scene of silence and of beauty it was! 
Mountains sweeping onward, clad with magnificent foliage, 
gray granite peaks, or huge boulders, peeping between, 
while the fleecy, silvery clouds floated leisurely over and on 
into unseen spaces, casting great shadows as they passed. 

I sat to rest a half hour till Abendbrod was served, and in 
that golden dream came my enrapturing vision. I can not 
describe it as I saw it. It was grand and glorious. There 
rose a mass of softest, silver-white clouds, mountains of 
them, in countless forms of grace and beauty, rising, spread- 
ing, floating, till my horizon was swallowed up in them. 
Then a filtering of the faintest rose and gold, shone through 
the silver transparency, a golden-rose, or rosy-gold, like the 
Alpengluhen — After-glow of the Alps. I felt the music of 
their varied forms, and gliding, rising, expanding move- 
ments, but there was the silence of a spirit. 


8 4 


At Last. 


In my dream these rose to the zenith, and as they swept 
on, a soft, pale, blue mass rose from behind the mountains, 
rising ever and extending, deepening into varied shades to 
the rich sapphire. Then these were followed by vast masses 
of purple, and such purple methought I had never seen, and 
in grandeur inexpressible, these colors blended and swept 
silently on. Now to this succeeded masses of orange in 
wondrous hues, and then a glory of scarlet, followed by 
deepest crimson, rose and mounted higher, and cast a tinge 
on all the other cloud masses. Then all the greens, in sub- 
lime harmony of variety, floated up, and around and through, 
and there seemed no limit to this wonderful glory of color. 
And while this majestic symphony floated on and rose into 
the infinitudes, and while I was gazing, I saw a bridge of 
pearl and rose and crimson and scarlet wonderfully blended, 
leading to a castle with many and lofty battlements, pinna- 
cles and towers, of all these colors in a united glory, but no 
black did I see there, and the castle was far, far beyond my 
ken, or boldest fancy, for i could not think up to its limitless 
extent. And on that bridge, and through those intermin- 
able castle halls, glided, meseemed, God-like forms in such 
a white as no human eye ever saw, or can see, and on each 
head I saw a crown like nothing I had seen heretofore, only 
its dazzling glory blinded my eyes, and I whispered to my- 
self in awe and joy, the “ crown of life ” it must be. These 
silent ones listened too to this cloud-color-symphony, but 
they saw and heard what, to my dull senses of earth, were 
incomprehensible. How long this vision lasted I can not 
tell you, but the bliss of it will shed a joy over all my life. 


At Last. 85 

“Oh, mater! how grand that dream must have been! I 
do love to hear you talk like that.” 

Frequently, after an hour with an “ old master,” or with 
Mendelssohn or Schumann, or some other maestro, Dr. 
Glenavon would say: 

* ‘ Come Harry, let us have a little elocution ; give us ‘ The 
Psalmn of Life,’ or ‘ To be, or not to be.’ ” 

The musical soul of the mother had brought out the con- 
ception of the music in language, thought, gesture, and the 
result was seen in the development of a born musician and 
orator. Every child-soul sleepeth till some master-touch 
set the chords a ringing. Forget not this ye mothers, and 
all educators. Sweep skilfully and lovingly those human 
heart-strings entrusted to your care, and the enrapturing 
sweetness you have touched into life, shall gladden your soul 
forever. 

But while Mrs. Molada made it the work and delight of 
her lonely life to train her gifted laddie, it had become 
evident that she could not winter in Canada. But she had 
not the wealth of former days to travel, and Harry resolved 
that he would take his mother to some warm, southern land. 
In spite of her resignation and fortitude, her great sorrow 
had undermined her physical powers, and nothing but 
change of climate could save her, even if that could. If 
she crossed the Atlantic, this voyage must take place not 
later than the beginning of September. The results in any 
case were distinctly doubtful. 

Dr. Glenavon fell on a brilliant thought one evening, or 
it on him, at least it occurred to him, that Harry could give 


86 


At Last. 


a concert in the pavilion, Mrs. Molada could accompany 
him with the piano for his singing, and the guitarre for his 
playing, and he could vary the entertainment by “an inter- 
spersed bit of elocution. * ’ And this thought simmered in 
his brain for some days, until an unexpected occurence led 
to an expression of it 


CHAPTER VIII. 


RABENSHORT. 

M R. R ABEN was a self-made man, that is he had ‘ ‘ made 
money,” and the money had made him. When he 
had acquired his wealth, he built a large house, gave it his 
own name, and left the church in which he had been bap- 
tized, where his parents had attended till they died, and 
where he had grown to manhood, and joined a fashionable 
church for “better society,” people said, but then people 
say so many things. People do change their church some- 
times with such an object; but these are not the strong souls , 
who form the bulwarks and battlements of the church of 
Christ. 

“There is no one in the Salmon Street Church you would 
want to speak to, you know,” said Mrs. Raben. 

“ Souls? How queerly you do put things! Yes, I sup- 
pose they have souls, what of it ? ” 

“ I thought one would always ‘ want ’ to speak to a soul.” 
Those people who leave the good old church of their 
forefathers, have very nebulous ideas touching “society.” 
This contemptible snobbishness! Pray do read Thackeray’s 
“ Book on Snobs.” 

What is best society ? They talk in affected tones about 
1 ‘ low society, ” “ common society, ” “la creme de la crime , ’ ’ 


88 


At Last . 


if they happen to know a little French, and assure you that 
they only “move in the best circles,” when their ancestors 
were bakers, butchers, shoemakers, or what else, not that all 
toil is not honorable, but the snob is ashamed of labor. 
Their definitions of best society are crude enough. Indeed 
I have seen them sorely put to it to give a sensible definition 
at all. Some think the best must dance perfectly, wasting 
hours every week to learn how — “waltz like a top,” fre- 
quent the theatre, the horse-races, play cards, give ‘ ‘ pro- 
gressive euchre” parties, dress in the extreme of fashion, 
have “ beautiful ” manners, and be accomplished in talking 
senseless nothings by the hour, and all the rest of it. Mind ? 
Fiddlesticks! One can not dance any better for knowing 
Greek and Latin, German and mathematics, Spanish and 
Italian, saying nothing of all the ologies. 

‘ ‘ Reading ? I hate to read ! ’ ’ said Mrs. Raben. ‘ ‘ I 
have so much money I do not know what to do with it.” 

And yet, she had her good points. She had false ideas 
of money, and the true value of the perishable. The sum- 
ming up of all thoughts on the subject, produced this false 
syllogism: 

‘ ‘ Money makes worth, makes a lady, I have money, 
therefore I have worth, am a lady.” 

Mr. Raben had been a son of toil, as his father before him, 
only he had given a wrong aim to his toil. Labor just to 
gain money, with no higher aim behind, warps and disfig- 
ures. His poor mother had been long a widow, and so 
poor that she could not afford a common “dip” for her 
only son to learn his lessons by, and he had done his 


At Last. 


89 


studying mostly lying on his face before the old-fashioned 
kitchen fire-place. Talents ? He had a knack for making 
money, and he began early. He had not had much chance, 
but he did the best he knew how, and poverty had taught 
him to value money for more than it was worth. 

Mr. Raben had married while poor, and when money 
came at last, and horses, carriage, jewels, costly toilettes, 
poor Mrs. Raben’ s frail bark, having no intellectual ballast, 
toppled over. She had little sympathy for others, and when 
Mrs. Molada asked her to take a share in church or charit- 
able work, replied; 

“ I do not know anything about these people, and I don’t 
care. I am going to take care of myself. I mean to enjoy 
life. Everybody seems to think I ought to do this and that. 
What have they to do with it ? Let them join the Woman’s 
Missionary Society if they want to, and go to the charities 
and places, and hunt up the dirty lanes, and filthy houses 
and people. I am not going to do any such thing. Sel- 
fishness ? Do you call it selfish to take of yourself, and keep 
what you have? Humph! Mr. Raben and I would not 
have one cent in a month if we went on in that style. ’ ’ 

Mr. and Mrs. Raben were the felicitous parents of three 
“olive branches;” the second, a laddie, had made what 
haste he could out of a world he did not like. 

At the time of the beginning of this true story, the 
youngest daughter of Rabenshort, Gertrude, was a generous, 
noble girl of nineteen, as unselfish as her elder sister, Hes- 
ter, was haughty and self-seeking. Gertrude was the 
blessing of her parents, and her taste and influence were 


9 o 


At Last. 


seen every where. Where she found her character was a 
question. Probably from that dear old, simple-hearted, pat- 
ernal, grand’ mere, whose greatest extravagance had been a 
common tallow candle for her boy on rare occasions. Ger- 
trude’s loving hands had prepared that basket for Mrs. Mol- 
ada, in the delivering of which her mother had so bungled, 
though she never discovered that bungling, and which had 
raised such resentment, and questionings, in the mind of our 
young hero. Gertrude Raben had been a member of Mrs. 
Molada’s Bible-class in the Fleur-de-lis Sunday school, and 
her beloved teacher had led her to Christ, and now, in her 
turn, she was endeavoring by her loving attentions, to repay 
all the love — and she was one of the most ardent workers in 
Mayor Mowbank’s Cross Street Mission. 

Dinner was over at Rabenshort, and the family were 
gathered according to custom on the veranda, to enjoy the 
cool of the evening and the sunset. Mr. Raben was buried 
in his papers, now and then reading something to his wife. 
Hester was reading a sensational novel, and Gertrude was 
writing at her lawn table. 

‘ ‘ Mamma, ’ ’ exclaimed Hester, ‘ ‘ when are we going to 
give our garden party ? ’ ’ 

“ I have been thinking about that,” replied Mrs. Raben. 
“I think we had better have it next week; what do you 
think, Richard?” 

“Not later, at any rate, I should think* It will be the 
middle of July, and summer will be gone in a jiffy. Invite 
every body you know, and make it a grand affair. We are 
not going to entertain all the tramps like the Underhills.” 


r 


At Last. 


9i 


‘ ‘ Who ever is to write all those invitations ? ’ ’ moaned 
Mrs. Raben; “ they must be sent to-morrow. I’m sure I 
can’t.” 

‘ ‘ I will mamma, ’ ’ cried Gertrude, looking up from her 
writing, “and Hester can address the envelopes.” 

“ Who told you so? ” asked Hester. 

“ Oh, you will, sister mine; we can do it all in a morning.” 

“ I don’t know whether I will.” 

“ Mamma, of course we invite some good pianists and 
singers for music in the evening, and Mrs. Molada and Harry, 
who sing and play together so beautifully. It is wonderful 
what strides the laddie has made since the advent of those 
Donthank ihstruments.” 

“ What do we want of the Moladas asked Hester in a 
scornful tone. “ They are nobody now. I don’t fancy 
Mrs. Molada has a gown fit to appear.” 

“ If I knew she had not, she would soon have one. I 
would give it her as to a sister miles beyond me.” 

“ I hate her. We do not want such learned paupers.” 

“ Oh, Hester! how can you ? Money is not everything. 
Mrs. Molada is a perfect lady, the most highly accomplished 
and widely travelled in Toronto. Whose fault is it that the 
Central Bank broke and robbed her ? It does not touch her 
character. Harry will be a star of the first magnitude. I 
should not be interested in anything if they were not here, 
and I will invite them in person. I fear they will not come.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Raben, “the Moladas must come. 
Let Gertrude do as she likes, and manage the affair in her 
own way.” 


92 


At Last. 


“Thank you, papa, so much. So that is settled, is it 
not, mamma?” 

“ Certainly, dear child; I never had an idea of not inviting 
them.” 

Gertrude made her call when she knew Harry would be at 
home, and playing. As she mounted the flight of stairs 
that led to their rooms, she heard the sweet strains and 
majestic chords of Schumann’s greatest Concerto. Dr. 
Glenavon was a rapt listener, and Mrs. Molada had the 
guitarre. 

“I am sorry to interrupt such music,” said Gertrude, 
entering; “ pray finish what you are playing.” 

“That is sublime music,” said Dr. Glenavon. 

“ I heard Frau Schumann play her husband’s Meister- 
stuck when in Germany,” said Mrs. Molada. “ Her chords 
were majestic, and she put such a spirit in the music, as no 
one else ever does or can, it seems to me.” 

“ But Harry plays it well,” said Gertrude. 

And then she had to play and sing with Harry, and Mrs. 
Molada forgot her cough and joined in, and Dr. Glenavon 
paced the room, now and again putting in a favorite strain. 

‘ ‘ I have a brilliant idea Dr. Glenavon, ’ ’ exclaimed Ger- 
trude, leaving the piano. 

‘ ‘ I propose that Harry give a concert in the pavilion. I 
will start the ball a rolling at our garden party.” 

“ I have entertained the same thought in part for some 
days,” replied Dr. Glenavon, “and Harry shall also vary 
by some of his elocution. He has quite a repertoire.” 

“ Will you do it, Harry? ” enquired Gertrude. 


At Last. 


93 


“ Will you help me Gertrude? You play so well.” 

‘‘Yes, I will.” 

‘ ‘ Good ! Then I put myself in your hands, and you and 
dear Dr. Glenavon may do what you think best. Is that 
right, mater mine ? ’ ’ 

‘‘Yes, dearie, certainly.” 

‘‘Oh, another brilliant thought! Little Gabrielle Under- 
hill would play a harp solo or two. I am sure they will 
allow her, and she is such a lovely little creature, and plays 
so nicely. It would create a furore — two children giving a 
concert! No danger of a fiasco! ” 

So they settled the point by fixing the first week in 
August, and Gertrude would see to the tickets, and secure 
the co-operation of her friends at the garden-party, and she 
would obtain Mrs. Underhill’s consent for Gabrielle to play, 
and Dr. Glenavon would secure the pavilion. 

‘‘Now I call this doing business,” said Gertrude laughing, 

‘ ‘ and the newsboys will sell tickets for us. ’ ’ 

‘‘Yes, and they shall go to the concert in a body,” said 
Harry. 

With much persuasion, Mrs. Molada consented to go to 
the garden-party, and Harry was to take music — Liszt’s 
Barcola, Chopin’s Berceuse, Beethoven’s Mondschein 
Sonata, and Gertrude was to come for them with the carriage 
the morning of the party. 

The glory of Rabenshort was the music-room, which 
constituted a wing added to the main building, to please 
Gertrude, who was a lover of Die Musika , herself a royal 
Muse, and queen of the immortal Nine, though not one of 


94 


At Last 


them. It consisted of two stories, with a broad gallery ex- 
tending around it above, and a horse-shoe-stairway at one 
end of the room led up to it. The room was finished in 
white and gold, containing white marble busts, and portraits 
of great composers, Beethoven and Handel filling the niches 
of honor, and the chamber contained two grand pianos, and 
an organ. 

My readers may imagine all the banalities of a gay garden- 
party. People laughed and gossiped, ate ices and fruits, 
drank unlimited quantities of drinks, and one heard the 
click of the croquet-ball, and the merriment of lawn tennis 
and archery. 

Hester, “got up,” in a dashing toilette, thought of noth- 
ing else but to gain admiration, and indulged in a good deal 
of violent flirtation. 

Gertrude moved about with quiet, unobstrusive dignity 
and grace among the guests, and somehow, made everyone 
feel pleased to chat with her. She told them in a confiden- 
tial way of the coming Molada concert, of Harry’s striking 
talent, and of his mother’s failing health, and received the 
promise of every gentleman, and most of the ladies to go. 
She told them that Mrs. Molada ought to go South, or she 
would die. That Harry was determined to take her to the 
Riviera, and that she herself had proposed the concert, and 
how Dr. Glenavon had the idea first, and was very enthus- 
iastic in helping it on. Then she told them that little 
Gabrielle Underhill was to play the harp, and Mrs. Underhill 
would accompany her on the piano. She ended by exciting 
their curiosity to the highest pitch. Meanwhile Judge 


At Last . 


95 


Underhill md Dr. Glenavon, aided by their host, had taken 
advantage of such a large re-uuion, and had set on foot a 
little plot of their own, the result of which shall appear later. 

Mrs. Raben had received her guests on the wide veranda, 
and there she chatted with Mrs. Molada, Mrs. Underhill, 
and others who came and went during the afternoon. 

“ I hear you are going to the Antipods for the winter,” 
she remarked to Mrs. Molada. 

“ Perhaps. It is not yet decided.” 

“ I have not traveled much. Mr. Raben is always too 
busy to get away. I went with him once to Penetanguish-e- 
nee, and we saw the church containing the memorials to the 
Jesu-ites, Lalemant6 — ‘Lalemant’ — and Breboof — ‘Br4beuf.’ 
I should love to cross the ocean. A good many of the aris-to- 
krassy have left Toronto already for Europe. We let Ger- 
trude go with her friend Kate Marron, and the governess, to 
Germany for nearly three years to study music and German, 
and they visited France and Italy. Hester, she didn’t want 
to go. Ah, see! there are little Gabrielle and Harry trying 
grace hoops! They look like figures in a fairy-tale or a 
mazurka. They are the only children here.” This chat 
was interrupted; Mrs. Glenavon joined them, and Dr. 
Glenavon stood looking over the books on Gertrude’s 
lawn- table. Among them were “ Layard’s and Rawlinson’s 
Travels in Babylonia,” also “ A Miracle in Stone” by Syce. 

* ‘ I suppose you are greatly interested in the cunieform 
inscriptions,” he said to Gertrude, as she, her friend Kate 
and Mr. Brenta, the great Canadian artist came up. 

‘ 4 1 confess those Runes excite in me a wish to be a 


9 6 


At Last. 


pansophist. I find the subject most fascinating, and I have 
been so glad to find those skeptics silenced, who made such 
capital out of the first verse of the twentieth chapter of 
Isaiah. But, Dr. Glenavon, what is your opinion concern- 
ing the great Pyramid of Gizeh ? Do you think that Syce 
is right?” 

“ Now you attack me with a broadside. I fancy only 
time, and the development of events in the world’s advancing 
history, will prove adequate to the solution of the problem. 
I confess frankly, that lidless sarcophagus presents diffi- 
culties. We are told that the builders were obliged to 
build the sarcophagus in as they built, also, the lid, natur- 
ally, if there were one, for it is claimed neither could have 
been introduced after the completion of the pyramid, hence 
could not have been taken out. Where is that lid ? Plainly 
there never was one. And the inevitable hypothesis is, that 
polished granite was never designed for a sarcophagus. 
And there are no hieroglyphics. ’ ’ 

“ I want to ask your opinion if I may, Dr. Glenavon,” 
said Kate Marron. “ Gertrude and I have just had a little 
argument with Mrs. Narrowviews. She maintains that we 
should only wear drab and slate-colored, or black, which is, 
truly, always distinguished. Oh, I think she permits 
brown. Now I can not see how a bright and lovely color 
can be injurious to true religion. God did not make all the 
birds drab or slate-colored, and then there are the exquisite 
greens and purples and grays, and the brilliant tints of sun- 
rise and sunset, and of all the flowers.” 

“Religion is a state of mind, the attitude of the soul, 


At Last. 


97 


toward God,” replied Dr. Glenavon. “ It is neither a lump, 
nor a color, nor a form; it is spirit, purpose, love. A 
refined taste will teach one how to dress, and what colors to 
wear in harmony with one’s income and position. There 
can be no harm in color per se. But a white-haired lady in 
a bright scarlet gown, and a Rembrandt hat, would be 
somewhat incongruous. By one’s attire, one expresses 
respect on occasions. God gave us common sense to use 
in all the emergencies of life, and not to employ it, would be 
like sitting down to write without pen, or, to read without 
book.” 

“And Mrs. Narrowviews maintains,” said Gertrude, 

‘ ‘ that we spend far too much time ‘ over these poor bodies 
that will become dust.’ In the meantime, my body is the 
house of my soul, and I am bound to nurture it, or my soul 
will be turned out into space by my fault perhaps.” 

“ It depends on what kind of care one gives. If a man 
spend an hour brushing and waxing his moustache, to give 
it the true a la Napoleoii twist and upturn, this would argue 
egregrious weakness and vanity. But any attention to the 
person condusive to the health and strength of the body, 
and, thus, indirectly, to the intellectual being, is not only 
justifiable, but absolutely imperative. 

Then, there is the inspiring thought that ‘your bodies are 
the temples of the Holy Ghost,’ and that they will be 
glorified and ‘made like unto Christ’s glorious body.’ 
The question of ‘ identical particles ’ does not trouble me at 
all, for we change these ‘ particles ’ every moment. ‘ Be- 
hold I show ycu a mystery.’ 4 We shall all be changed! ’ 


9 8 


At Last . 


How, then, can I esteem the care of this body too highly? 
To neglect it is suicidal. It is like this, God has lent me 
myself, and the talents lent, must be returned with usury. 
Destroying the body, I destroy my opportunities for useful- 
ness. ’ ’ 

Just then Judge Underhill joined the group. 

“I have not seen you for some time,” he said, addressing 
Mr. Brenta, “ have you been out of town ? ” 

“Yes, I was in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, where I 
took occasion to study Mundcacsy’s ‘Christ before Pilate.’ ” 

“Ah! I saw that painting in New York, exhibited by gas- 
light! It impressed me profoundly. What is your estimate 
of the work ? ” 

“ On the whole it is a grand work. The grouping and 
the coloring are masterful. There is much to be said, and 
that suggestion of the coming church, pre-figured by the 
woman with the child in her arms, is a beautiful conception. 
In all that mob, her lovely countenance alone expresses 
sympathy for that lonely figure, protected by a superb 
Roman soldier, standing before the craven-coward Pilate. 
Many have named the scene ‘ Pilate before Christ.’ What 
a tragedy! ” 

“Touching impressionism, realism; if you artists mean 
by realism truth in art, be realistic when need be, but it is 
not dc rigeur to paint all the truth in any form. Let me 
illustrate my meaning. I prefer one of Raffaello’s grand 
cherub boys, to that hideous old Romaness drunk, that one 
sees in the Capitoline at Rome. Do you imagine a single 
being ever reformed by a view of that work ? ” 


At Last. 


99 


“You would not, then, portray life as it is? ” 

“ That is a large question. I will ask one in return. Is 
the human benefitted more by a portrayal of the noble or 
the low? I beg to remain debtor to both questions.” 

The conversation was interrupted by the approach of two 
or three clergymen who had just left their great annual 
church councils. 

“Ah, gentlemen,” cried Judge Underhill, laughing, “the 
Proletariat is waking up, and finding its sea-legs; it is 
doubtless animated by the amiable and most laudable desire 
to rectify wrongs and abuses, and clip the wings of the 
clergy in general.” 

“We are ready for the conflict,” said the Rev. Dr. 
Knox, “and perfectly willing that the Proletariat should 
have its proper share in church government.” 

“ It is indisputably true,” said Dr. Clearcomment, “ and 
just, that the Laien should participate in ecclesiastical 
matters, but an attempt to infringe — a — a — on the preroga- 
tive of the clergy, or to abrogate rights inherent in the 
sacerdotal dignity, will most assuredly lead to confusion and 
complications.” 

“My opinion is,” said Dr. Glenavon, “that the Laity 
has, heretofore, not participated in its legitamate share of 
church legislation. The church is for the people. The 
clergy are for the people, not their lords, but servants — 
helpers. We must imitate our Divine Priest.” 

Meanwhile the sun had gone down behind beautiful trees, 
the attendants were lighting up the house and grounds, 
which were lighted with electricity, and the guests were 


IOO 


At Last . 


moving towards the musie-room. Gertrude opened the 
music by the performance of that lovely march in Lohengrin. 
She was encored to the echo, and responded with the over- 
ture to Tannhauser. Then Harry played Chopin’s Ber- 
ceuse, and Barcarolle, Mrs. Molada taking guitarre, 
and Gertrude second piano. Then Mrs. Ghiberti and Mrs. 
Bellamontana sang “Oh, lovely peace, ’ ’ and Signore Stella- 
bella accompanied them on the harp, Gertrude on the piano. 
Now Harry played Beethoven’s Sonata Appassionata, Mrs. 
Molada played guitarre, little Gabrielle harp, and Gertrude 
piano. Harry’s bravoura took the guests by storm. There 
was a tempest of applause. ‘ ‘ Marvellous ! ” “ W onderf ul ! ’ ’ 
“A coming Liszt! ” “A virtuoso! ” echoed on all sides. 

After a violin obligato, and a tragic thing on the cello, 
came the closing Vortrag — performance, “ The Lord is mind- 
ful of his own,” from Mendelssohn’s St. Paul. Mrs. Molada 
had arranged a quartette accompaniment, and she, herself 
played guitarre, Mrs. Underhill and Gertrude the two pianos, 
and Gabrielle harp. Harry’s passionate enthusiasm and the 
power of that bell-clear voice almost terrified the listeners, 
who held their breath to hear. 

It is said, when Paganini played on one string, his audi- 
ence wept, and many learned to pray. But oh, the power 
of a God-endowed voice in a child! 


CHAPTER IX. 


PEARL FISHING. 


“ Love, that discourses in my thoughts.” 

“ Behold God’s angel: fold thy hands: 

Now shalt thou see true ministers indeed.” 

HE evening after the garden-party was Harry’s evening 



1 with the newsboys. They knew all about the pro- 
posed concert, for Gertrude Raben had enlisted their services 
in the sale of tickets. The boys greeted Harry with cheers, 
and made much ado over Don Pedro, who most distinctly 
enjoyed being lionized. 

“ Now boys,” cried Harry, “ you are to be deadheads at 
my concert. A place has been reserved for you all close by 
the platform, and you are all to go together.” 

Then every boy showed his Anti-Sin Club card, with his 
signature, “and we mean to keep our pledge too!” cried 
the boys. And then they seated themselves around the 
table for a reading lesson. 

Before they parted, Jack Drinkdregs told Harry that his 
mother was very ill, and that she had begged to see his 
mother. Did he think Mrs. Molada would come ? 

“And then, maybe you could coax father to sign a card; 
I can’t; he swears at me.” 


102 


At Last. 


“ I will try, Jack, and if mamma is able, I will bring her 
to-morrow.” 

The following morning Gertrude Raben called at Free 
street to fix a time for their practice for the concert, driving 
herself in her pony-carriage. When she heard of the illness 
of poor Mrs. Drinkdregs, she immediately proposed to drive 
them to the house. Mrs. Molada sat down by the sick 
woman, in the drunkard’s wretched home — Home? Rags, 
filth, utter desolation! what a parody on the sacred name 
home! and the besotted being whom she, alas! called hus- 
band, sitting there in the next room a curse to himself and 
his poor wife and boy. She had repeated some of the sweet 
Bible-promises, and comforted the poor soul with words of 
Jesus himself, and was about to pray with the dying woman, 
when her pastor, the Rev. Dr. Hett, entered. Mrs. Molada 
offered him her place by the bedside. 

He did not shake hands with the invalid, but said to her, 
at the same time searching in the back-pockets of his coat: 
“ How are you to-day, my good woman ? ” Then, after a 
more vigorous search, he exclaimed: “Ah-a-a! I see I 
have forgotten my prayer-book! So I will not pray to-day, 
but I will read prayers when I see you again.” * 

And he bowed himseif out. Let us hope there are not 
many such pastors. The sick woman died that night, and 
those promised ‘ ‘ read prayers ’ ’ she lost! 

My hero, meanwhile, was giving a card to the poor sot. 

“ It is not too late, Mr. Drinkdregs. Put your name on 
this beautiful card, among the flowers, see ? and we will all 
help you not to go to the Ruby again.” 


* A fact. 


At Last. 


103 


“ Mr. Drinkdregs! Yes, the laddie had called him ‘ Mr. ! ’ 
and Mrs. Molada had too! him — worse than a beast,” he 
soliloquized. 

‘ ‘ I wonder, Molada, you speak to me — me, who treated 
you so shamefully and wickedly in that saloon of the Ruby.” 

“Never mind, Mr. Drinkdregs,” said Harry; “you 
would not have done it if you had not been ” 

“Drunk!” interrupted the miserable man. “I was 
drunk! Oh, God! I wish I could stop drinking; but I 
can! t. I’m a lost — a ruined man forever. There’s no hope 
for the like o’ me.” 

“Do — write your name here,” pleaded Harry, handing 
him his own pocket-pen. “Jack will help you, he has 
signed.” 

Mr. Drinkdregs wrote his name. “I’ll try once more,” 
he said. 

“ Do not go past the Ruby.” 

“ There’s one at every corner, nearly. How can a fellow 
escape? The smell maddens me; it pulls me right in, and 
then I’m done for.” 

“ We will find you some w r ork, and Jack will take you to 
and from, and avoid going past a saloon.” 

“ But they’ll offer me drink. They carry bottles in their 
pockets.” 

“Turn and run if they do; run just as you would run 
from a thousand mad dogs. That one black bottle after 
you, is worse than all the mad dogs in the world to- 
gether. Run! and pray out loud! No matter who hears 
you, if God only does. Don’t be afraid of a laugh, let 


At Last. 


104 

them laugh. Say ‘Oh, Jesus! help me, take away this 
thirst for drink.’ ” 

“ I’ll do it. God help me!” At the door stood Jack. 
He had heard all, and he was busy rubbing his eyes with 
his coat-sleeve. 

Dr. Glenavon had work. Catch him not having work, 
when work was needed to help a soul. Dr. Glenavon 
seized the horns of an opportunity, and held it, and shook 
it, and got all out of it, there was in it, and never let go, 
and never missed one. You can never catch an opportun- 
ity, once gone past. As well try to catch the mighty, swift- 
winged eagle or to find that lost chord in the music now 
forever silent. Pick up every good act as you go. 

“ Bald^ra^ is your papa at home? ” 

“ Yes, Harry, he has not been out yet this morning; he 
is in his room.” 

“ Then I will take him this card now. Jack Drinkdregs’ 
father has signed one. We have just come from Trap Lane. 
Mrs. Drinkdregs is dying, and she asked to see mater.” 

Mrs. Trueman was in the kitchen at the ironing-table, 
and the streaming perspiration from her face fell sissing on 
the flat-iron. Baby was playing and cooing on the floor in 
the living-room, and Baldera was tripping around the room 
laying the covers for dinner. Harry tapped and entered 
Mr. Trueman’s room. 

“ Good morning, Mr. Trueman,” said he with a smile; 
“ I have brought you one of these little cards; I have come 
to ask you to sign it, and if you will, and keep its rules, 
you may soon become as happy again as you used to be 
before you visited the Ruby.” 


At Last. 


105 

“ I should like to, Harry; I would if I thought it would 
be of any use at all. My poor wife killing herself, and my 
little Baldera losing her education. Your noble mamma has 
been so good in giving her music and French lessons, but 
the dear child has no time for study. And all this is my 
fault. Woe is me! What shall I do? ’ 

“ Mr. Trueman.” 

“Well Harry.” 

“ Have you spoken to God about it? ” 

“No.” 

“ Why do you not ? ” 

“ What would be the use ? ” 

“Do you not believe He could and would strengthen you 
to keep a promise — a vow ? ” 

“If I made one, perhaps. But this awful thirst, this 
mad craze, it is paramount to a disease. Fever is ice com- 
pared with it. It is a living fiend tearing my very heart 
out. I must drink to live. Is this being possessed of a 
devil, I wonder?” 

“Jesus ‘ cast out devils ’ when he lived a man down here. 
Could he not just as easily up in Heaven ? ” 

“ To be sure, Harry — if this is a devil.” 

“ Mater told me he cured Gough; took all the desire for 
drink, all the thirst itself quite from him, so that he never 
wanted it again. If God did that for Gough, could not He 
do it for you ? ” 

“ I suppose he could, if I could see it that way, and 
could decide .” 

“ He will cure you, if you will let Him.” 


io6 


At Last . 


“ Oh, if I thought I could stand! I have been fighting a 
duel with this foul demon all morning. I can not hold out 
much longer. He will trip me up. I shall go down those 
steps three at a time. Oh, God! oh, God! ” 

4 4 Have you no will f ’ ’ 

44 It seems not, Harry. Will-power is paralyzed by the 
deadly demon alcohol.” 

“Alcohol is a drug, Mr. Trueman, and you have taken 
the poison till you are sick unto death. I know God can 
heal you.” 

44 Oh, if I thought I could stand! ” 

“You can not. You never can. But Jesus Christ will 
stand for you, and hold you up.” 

“You dear little boy! Surely God sent you to me, this 
morning.” 

44 He did, yes. I am His, He told me to come. Now I 
will leave a card, and this is my own pocket pen; write 
your name with that, will you ? Tell Jesus, talk to Him 
just as you have to me. Good-bye.” And the little fellow 
ran away, leaving no time for a reply. 

Mr. Trueman sat very still, looking at the card and the 
pocket pen, like a man in a dream. He heard the cooing 
of baby, the light steps of Baldera, that hurrying flat-iron, 
unconscious that he heard; a great crisis in his broken life 
had come. He knew that he was standing at Which-Way- 
Crossroads, and that he must choose now — or die. 

Suddenly a mighty impulse shook him, as the strong on- 
sweeping wind shakes the trembling leaf. Something in 
him stood up like a giant and said “ I will.” It was so 


At Last. 


107 


great, so strong, that it seemed ready to burst him. A loud 
cry broke from his quivering lips — “Oh, God! I will!” 
and he fell upon his knees. The flying flat-iron stood still 
and listened, the girlish steps stopped and listened, only 
baby cooed on. 

“Oh, Lord Jesus Christ, I am at your feet, at your 
cross, all broken, and bruised, and crushed, and ruined — 
ruined! You gave me talents, and I have burnt them 
well-nigh up in alcohol-fire. A loving wife, and I have 
broken her heart, and my oath to her, made at your hal- 
lowed altar, and my darling little Baldera I have left to 
grow up as she might, like an evil weed. Oh, Jesus! can 
you do anything with such a poor broken thing as I am ? 
I want to stop drinking. Oh, God! I want to stop drink- 
ing. I want to pick up the dropped threads in my life, 
fallen through my sin, and begin again. How shall this 
be accomplished ? My promises are like silken cords in the 
paw of the lion. There is no strength in me. 

“ Oh, God! oh, Christ-Jesus, help me. I am so miserable. 
This great movement m my inner life I know is God. 
Jesus! Jesus! can you heal me? Will you heal me? Now! 
Now! Why wait? ‘ Now is the accepted time.’ Give me 
your strength, for I have none. Everything is against me. 
You know all, Jesus. You know my need, which is so 
great, I can not fathom its depth, but you, the great God- 
rnan, on the throne of Infinity, , you are omnipotent, and 
you are on my side. You died for me! Oh, how could I 
doubt your love ? All the fiends of perdition are less than 
a breath before the on-rushing tempest, when you speak, 


At Last. 


io8 

and command, and the sinful soul says I will. Jesus says 
‘ I will, be thou clean. ’ 

“ I accept the promise. Burn up this raging, raving 
thirst in the fire of your love. Wash me in your life-blood, 
give me the ‘white robe,’ the ‘new name!’ Here on my 
knees, in a very Gethsemane of anguish, at the foot of the 
Calvary- Cross, I write my name on this card, and I will 
keep these vows. Oh, God! Jesus Christ! help me. Son 
of God! hear — help. Amen!” Writes — “ Felix Trueman.” 

He paused but a momrnt, when a joy-wave swept through 
his soul. He rose to his feet, crying: 

“ I am free! Hallelujah! ” 

He opened the door, calling: 

‘ ‘ Costanaa ! Bald6ra ! Come here quick — quick ! J esus 
Christ has healed me! Set me free from my sin! I shall 
never touch alcohol again.” 

He was unaware that they had hoard his prayer. Alone 
with God in the chamber of his immortality, all other con- 
sciousness had been lost. 

Bald^ra flew to her father, Mrs. Trueman caught up the 
cooing babe, as she hastened to her now transformed hus- 
band. He threw his arms around the three — ‘‘No more 
ironing for thee, my sweet Costanza. Can’st forgive me? 
And Bald6ra shall have her governess again. Oh, we will 
be happy! ” 

Mr. Trueman was a “genuine case.” He had found the 
strength he so sorely needed, and he never did touch alcohol 
again. His brilliant talents were so well known, and his 
piteous history, that the whole city, and, in fact the whole 


At Last. 


109 


country, were greatly moved by his remarkable conversion. 

Some doubted, and said: “it is all nonsense! No man 
can change so suddenly.” 

They forgot that conversion is simply a turning with — 
con, with; verto, I turn — the one whom you have hitherto 
opposed. One may take a year, a month, a week, a day, a 
moment, to decide; but, the act of turning with, must be in- 
stantaneous. God is always ready. The instant the soul 
says I will, the work is done, the reconciliation complete. 
It is that will not that keeps the face, and the heart, turned 
from the ‘ ‘ Light of the world. ’ ’ 

Mr. Trueman stood — he was a very Gibralter. Several 
law-firms offered him a partnership, and he finally united 
himself with that distinguished Toronto law-firm of Messrs. 
Goodwill, Seaklere & Deep. 

Everybody knows The Towers, the Trueman home. It 
is the sunniest, brightest house, full of flowers and light. In 
the library is a portrait of Harry. “That is the God’s- 
angel who led me to say no forever to the Ruby,” Mr. 
Trueman would say to friends, “and I am a member of the 
Molada Anti-Sin Club.” 

When Harry left Mr. Trueman, he had another visit to 
make that morning, and he hastened to the home of Pat 
Donegal. Pat had taken a severe cold the previous winter, 
which had been unusually severe, standing so much in the 
streets; this had seized the lungs, and he had grown grad- 
ually worse, until, finally, he was obliged to give up work, 
and now it was plain he could not last much longer. Harry 
bought a white lily and some fruit on his way. Pat’s face 
lighted up when he entered. 


I IO 


At Last. 


“ Oh, Molada, I’m so glad to see you! ” 

“How do you feel, Pat?” he asked, handing him the 
lily, and peeling an orange. 

“ Weak, weak, but so happy. I had a lovely dream last 
night. Nora came to me in such a white robe, and she 
said: ‘be patient, Pat, I heard Jesus say he was coming 
for you soon.’ Oh, won’t it be nice to see Jesus ? There’s 
one thing troubles me. Poor mother! ” 

‘ ‘ God will care for her, Pat. ’ ’ 

“I know; but I forget that sometimes — or I lose my 
faith.” 

“ You are not afraid to die, Pat? ” 

“No, never — now. I’m just glad. ’ ’ 

Harry drew out his little pocket-Bible, and read the 
“Shepherd ” Psalm, and then the “ Hills ” Psalm. 

“Now,” said Pat, “read me ‘ Let not your heart be 
troubled.’ I just hear Jesus saying the words.” 

As Harry read, Pat cried: “Isn’t that foine? ‘I will 
come!’ He’s coming Himself! ” 

Then Harry knelt down and had a talk with Jesus about 
Pat, and the newsboys, and all the poor, and sick, and 
tempted ones. It was a wonderful prayer. 

When Harry was leaving, Pat said: “I hope I’ll die 
before you and your lady-mother go.” 

“ I will come and see you the day before we leave for 
New York.” 

“If I’m here. I’ll maybe be home before then.” 

“ Good-by, dear Pat.” 

“Good-by. Good-by.” 


CHAPTER X. 


THE CONCERT. 


‘ God’s child with His dew 


On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue 
Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings.” 

HERE had been much talk and wonderment regarding 



l the talented boy, who had worked like a true son of 
Beau Canada for his widowed and invalid mother, and who 
had a child’s simplicity, and not a trace of vanity or self- 
adulation. People came from Hamilton and London, from 
Kingston, Quebec and Montreal. Long before the time for 
beginning the concert, the pavilion was crowded. 

The two children, Gabrielle and Harry, opened the 
concert, and when they appeared upon the platform, Harry 
leading Gabrielle by the hand, and they together saluted the 
audience, there was an enthusiastic clapping of hands and 
waving of handkerchiefs. The little maiden played that 
sweet melody “ O, mia bella p atria ! ” and Harry accom- 
panied her on the piano, and then they responded to the 
encore with “(9, Bellezza! O Dolcezza /” 

Now Harry made his first public effort in elocution, 
reciting “A Psalm of Life.” Next Gertrude Raben and 
Harry played Liszt’s “Carnival de Venise,” with immense 
bravoura. Then Harry played Liszt’s “ Spinnlied,” Mrs. 


1 12 


At Last. 


Molada accompanying him on the guitarre, the accompani- 
ment her own composition. 

And now he sang “ Oh, for the wings of a dove! ” Mrs. 
Molada accompanying him, with Gertrude on the piano, 
and encored to the echo, he gave ‘ ‘Angels ever bright and 
fair,” and little Gabrielle accompanied him on the harp. 
But the enthusiasm of the audience was so untamable, that 
Harry sang again an exquisite composition, words and music 
by Mrs. Molada, “ My love lies far in a Soldier’s grave,” and 
she accompanied on the piano. Next he recited “The 
charge of the Light Brigade,” and in response to the enthu- 
siasm of his audience, Scott’s fascinating ballad “ Rosa- 
belle.” Now came Beethoven’s sublime “Kaiser Sonata.” 
Harry played first, Gertrude second piano, Gabrielle harp, 
Mrs. Molada guitarre and Mrs. Underhill lute, and for an 
encore, Gertrude and Harry played a Nocturne by Chopin. 
And Harry closed the concert by singing ‘ ‘ Gute Nacht! ’ ’ 
all his artist friends accompanying. 

As Harry returned to bow his thanks to the excited aud- 
ience, Don Pedro following him in with the calm dignity of 
a German Kaiser, Judge Underhill came forward, leading 
Gabrielle, who carried a small round salver of pure gold, 
with a silken purse on it, worked by Mrs. Underhill and 
herself, with the letters G. U. worked in with the beads. 

Harry, understanding nothing, hesitated a moment, when 
Gabrielle handed him the salver, saying: “ Dear Har — I 
mean Master Molada,” — the audience laughed and cheered, 
“I am to hand you these from your friends of Toronto, 
because — because you have been such a good son, and they 


At Last. 


”3 

all wish you and your mamma a safe and happy journey, a 
pleasant stay, and a safe return to Toronto.’ 

‘ ‘ Bravo ! Bravo ! ’ ’ cried the audience. 

The purse was filled with English gold sovereigns. The 
small gold salver bore the legend — 

GERTRUDE UNDERHILL 

TO HER FRIEND 

HARRY MOLADA. 

Tintern Abbey. 

Harry bowed profoundly and replied: “Through you, 
Miss Underhill, I beg to thank all my dear friends for their 
beautiful gift, and yourself for this little salver, and if my 
dear mater returns well, I shall have all the reward I ever 
thought about — and — and I shall never forget you all.” 

“Bravo! Bravo!” 

Harry again saluted his audience, and turned to with- 
draw, when the newsboys rose as one boy, and Max Dorn 
walked up the steps to the platform, bearing a beautiful dog- 
collar and a leading-chain. 

“ Master Molada,” he said, “the newsboys wish me to 
put this collar on Don Pedro’s neck as a souvenir from 
them, and as a protection on his journey.” Handing Harry 
the chain, he locked the collar on Don Pedro’s neck, and 
gave Harry the key. The collar had a silver plate on the 
top, bearing the legend: 

“Don Pedro Molada, Toronto.” 

On the under side were the words: 

“From the Newsboys of Toronto.” 


At Last. 


n 4 

“Dear Max,” said Harry. “I want you to thank the 
newsboys very much for this lovely collar and chain. I am 
glad you put it on Don Pedro’s neck, for you are the boy 
who taught me how you bought the newspapers.” 

The artists of the evening now played “ God save the 
Queen! ” and everyone sang with a will, and a more 
satisfied and delighted audience never broke up. 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE JEWEL CASKET. 


T the time of the bankruptcy of the Central Bank, 



when Donthank and its rich treasures had been all 


surrendered, Mrs. Molada had retained nothing belonging 
to it. All that remained to her were two beautiful works of 
art, a gift of her girlhood, from a friend long dead, a rich 
Roman cabinet of inlaid ivory, containing an exquisite 
casket of pure silver, richly sculptured, and inlaid with 
precious stones. 

Preparations for the fast-approaching journey were in 
progress. It had been decided to leave the piano and 
organ with the Truemans, and Baldera was in great glee at 
the prospect of having the two Molada rooms, and Ger- 
trude Raben had promised her two lessons a week. Little 
Gabrielle Underhill was to keep Roma. 

‘ * Mater, what are you going to do with your Roman 
cabinet ? ’ ’ 

“Take it with me, cheri. This leather trunk, apparently, 
is really its case, and was given me with it. Do you know 
what is in that cabinet, Harry ? ’ ’ 

“ No mater; I have never seen its interior.” 

Mrs. Molada proceeded to open the lock of the cabinet. 

“ What a peculiar lock this seems,” cried Harry. 


At Last. 


1 1 6 

“Yes. No mortal could ever open it without knowing 
its secret;” and Mrs. Molada told him the letters on and 
through which it was opened. She took out the casket and 
placed it on the table. 

“What a magnificent, what a beautiful object of art,” 
cried Harry. “ On the lid is C. M. in sapphires.” 

“It is a monogram.” 

“ C. is not for you ? ’ ’ 

“No. This casket contains the treasures of the dead — 
hence forever sacred.” 

She unlocked the casket. First there was an enameled 
portrait of Harry’s father in youth, then a brooch bearing 
his portrait in enamel, at the time of his marriage, a gift to 
his bride, and a rare old Sard ring, engraved with some- 
thing from Homer’s Iliad. A delicious rose-fragrance, 
fresh, as it would seem, from the Rosen-Ernte of Bulgaria, 
filled the apartment, and two gilt bottles of attar de rose, 
lying in their soft velvet nest, betrayed the source of it. 

“ Mater, why do you not wear this brooch and lovely 
ring ? ■” 

“ That is my betrothal ring, Harry. Your papa brought 
it from the east. He treasured it highly, and he said that 
was why he made it our engagement ring.” 

Then came a rich, enameled, book-shaped-locket. Harry 
opened it. It contained the face of a babe, and three 
shades of hair intertwined. 

“ Who is it, mater ? And whose hair? ” 

M You, the day you were three months old; the gold hair 
is the first cut from your head, the dark is your papa’s, the 
other you know.” 


At Last 


IT 7 

Touching a spring, another side showed the face of his 
father. 

“Papa! how beautiful! What a pretty idea the whole 
thing is, mater! You should wear that.” 

Next came an enamel of a youthful maiden face. 

‘ ‘ Is that you, mater ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, when I was fourteen. You recognized it? ” 

“Yes, Carissima mia, it is very like you now. And who 
is this ? ’ * 

It was a girlish face. 

“That is my beloved and only sister, Renee; she died 
when a young girl.” 

“ Who are these two faces together ? ” 

‘ ‘ Enamels of my father and mother when they were 
married. ’ ’ 

The inner side of the lid was adorned with an exquisite 
copy of the lovely Carlo Dolce Madonna and child, in the 
Palazzo Corsini at Rome. 

“The friend who gave me the casket,” said Mrs. Molada, 

‘ ‘ had that painted from the original by a Roman artist, and 
placed there. It was his favorite Madonna after the Raffael- 
los.” 

“And now, that is all, Carissima.” 

‘ ‘Are you sure, Harry ? ’ ’ 

“ Surely; I see nothing more.” 

Mrs. Molada touched a hidden spring, Harry could not 
see where, and the inner side of the lid slid down, revealing 
a compartment behind, and a glorious enamel on the inner 
side of the true lid, of a noble countenance, beautiful as Apollo. 


n8 


At Last. 


“ Mater! my Lohengrin! Oh, how beautiful! How like 
him! Golden locks, blue eyes, and that noble look! ” 

“Your ‘Lohengrin,’ Harry? That is not possible. 
That face has been dead for years. ’ ’ 

“It is my Lohengrin, exactly! He must have sat for 
that portrait. Oh, mater! he is just grand, my Lohengrin, 
I mean. I wonder if I ever shall see him again! ” 

Mrs. Molada seemed struck by the child’s persistency. 

“ Why did your unknown friend call himself ‘ Lohen- 
grin ? ’ Did he say why ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, he said he was travelling incognito.” 

“ It is singular.” 

“It is my Lohengrin, mater. Nobody could look like 
him.” 

There were three divisions in the inner compartment, 
each opened by an invisible spring. The first contained an 
enameled gold watch, with a large M in Indian rubies. 
Mrs. Molada opened it, on the inside of the lid was a 
costly enameled portrait. 

“ Mater! Lohengrin again! ” 

“ It is, certainly, the same face as the enamel on the lid, 
only smaller, and set with diamonds and sapphires. ’ ’ The 
second division contained a ring, a great sapphire of the 
richest of stones. 

“ What a gorgeous ring, mater! ” 

The third division contained a rich, old Roman bracelet, 
enameled in lapis lazuli, bearing the legend: “ Amo te. 
Ama me .” * 


Amo te. Ama me. I love thee. Love me. 


At Last. 


119 

“ That is all now. Close we up the casket. It, and its 
contents belong to the dead — to the unforgotten past.” 

“ Mater! do not look like that. Your face is as white as 
marble.” And throwing his arms around her neck, and 
covering her face with kisses, he whispered: “I could not 
live without you, Carissima, make haste and forget all sad 
things, and grow strong.’ 

Then he seated himself at the piano, and began playing 
a Chopin waltz, Roma joined in with his fascinating little 
ways, and Mrs. Trueman appeared bearing the tea-tray, 
Baldera carrying a lovely basket of fruit and flowers from 
Tintern Abbey. 


CHAPTER XII. 


A CO-DITCH-IL. 

CUI BONO? 

“ Lo! the fell monster with the deadly sting, 

Who passes mountains, breaks through fenced walls 
And firm embattled spears, and with his filth 
Taints all the world.” 

M R. RABEN, of Rabenshort, had made an appoint- 
ment with Goodwill, Seaklere and Deep — and True- 
man now — for a business interview, and he presented him- 
self, punctual to the moment, as was his wont, at the office 
of Mr. Goodwill. He desired to add a “ Co-ditch-il ” to 
his will. 

“ Punctual as usual, Mr. Raben,” said Mr. Goodwill. 
“ I suspect that that trait in your character has contributed 
largely to your success in life.” 

‘ ‘ I shouldn’ t wonder. I never was late in my life, and I 
have generally risen with the sun. My whole life has been 
an up-and-down race, and the minutes are few that I have 
squandered. I have heard folks talk of ‘ lost time, ’ but I 
never had much of that commodity, a losing business I 
should say.” 

“You are perfectly right, Mr. Raben. You know the 


At Last. 


1 2 1 


story of the unfortunate man, who had an appointment with 
the Duke of Wellington, and arrived late, but the victor of 
Waterloo had no time to wait. Bad for the late comer, 
doubtless.” 

‘ ‘ Served him right. I have known people, do what you 
might, were always late, late on ’Change even! There will 
be a once they can’ t be late. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ When will that be ? ” 

“ When they die. Death won’t wait for nobody.” 

Mr. Goodwill laughed. “ How about taxes? ” 

“ ‘Taxes?’ The country’s taxed to death. Shut up 
the saloons, and the prisons will be less crowded, and a use- 
less, dangerous class might be lessened. I never see that 
‘ Black Maria ’ dragging some miserable criminal or 
‘ drunk ’ through the streets, with a batoned policeman or 
two on guard, but I feel like swearing. We begin at the 
wrong end for a revenue. We put the horse behind the 
cart. ’ ’ 

“ Toronto is not in much danger of becoming Utopia 
just yet. Selfishness is the great obstacle to the world’s 
emancipation from evil. We begin wrong, as you truly 
say. Governments destroy the best any nation can possess 
for gain, for a revenue. I would call your attention to an 
article from the pen of Archdeacon Farrar in the Fort- 
nightly Review , which is just to the point. He says: ‘ In 
1724 gin drinking began to affect the masses, and Mr. 
Lecky, in his ‘ History of the Eighteenth Century,’ draws a 
terrible picture of the way in which the fatal passion for 
drink was at once and irrevocably planted in the nation. 


122 


At Last 


On that account he fixes on that year as one of the blackest 
and most fatal epochs in English history. And are we now 
to be told that drink in those days did not cause crime ? 
One may suppose that the grand jury of Middlesex were 
under no such utter delusion, for soon after 1724 they 
declared that ‘ much the greatest part of the poverty, the 
robberies, and the murders of London, might be attributed 
to drink.’ 

In 1750 the London physicians also drew up a memorial, 
and said that there were then 14,000 cases of fatal illness 
due to gin alone. At the same time Bishop Benson, of 
Gloucester, one of the best bishops on the bench, used these 
words so diametrically the opposite of Mr. Walker’s insinu- 
ation. ‘Our people,’ he said, ‘have become what they 
never were before, cruel and inhuman. These accursed 
liquors which, to the shame of our government, are so 
easily to be had, have changed their very nature.’ 

At the same time the whole bench of bishops interposed 
the unsullied purity of their lawn between the nation and 
the curse of the drink trafftic, as in their days, our judges 
have interposed ‘the stainless sanctity of their ermine.’ 
They protested against the Gin Act as ‘ founded on the 
indulgence of debauchery, the encouragement of crime, 
and the destruction of the human race.’ Lastly, John 
Wesley was far from thinking of those days, as Mr. Walker 
now thinks, that ‘ it would have been a palpable absurdity, 
to speak of a relationship of cause and effect between drink 
and crime.’ He said: ‘ But all who sell dram or spirituous 
liquors in the common way to any that will buy, are 


At Last. 


123 


poisoners general. They drive men to hell like sheep. A 
curse is in the midst of them.’ And if this be true of the 
last century, how much more emphatically is it true of this 
nineteenth century. In fact, intemperance has become such 
a fiendish destroyer of human flesh and human souls, he 
might reasonably be compared to Dante’s ‘ Geryon.’ In- 
temperance is the monster-fraud of the world, and selfish- 
ness is the corner-stone of his hellish fabric.” 

“That is terribly true, Mr. Goodwill; but there are, 
nevertheless, some splendid mountain peaks, some great 
souls, towering above the awful darkness, and scattering 
their rays of light. There is the noble organization of the 
Woman’s Christian Temperance Union, with their queenly 
President, Miss Willard, and Lady Henry Somerset in 
England, and Mrs. Youmans, now invalided, in Canada.” 

“Yes, you are right,” said Mr. Goodwill; “these fearless 
women have the courage of their convictions, and they have 
discovered that woman’s sphere is where God tells her to 

go-" 

“To come to business, Mr. Goodwill; I want to add a 
‘ co-ditch-il ’ to my will, which you made some five years 
ago. Since that time my income has increased consider- 
ably, and I can provide for that without changing the main 
body of the will.” 

“ Good. Quite right.” 

‘ ‘ First, I leave two thousand dollars to the ‘ Molada 
Newsboys’ Hall.’ That is justly the name, for Harry 
started the idea, and it is needed, and ought to be built. 
Next, I will and bequeath two thousand, five hundred 


24 


At Last. 


dollars to Mrs. Molada, and the like sum to Harry Molada, 
only son and child of the said Mrs. Molada, and of the late 
Dr. Oscar Molada. Should either one of these two persons 
be dead at the time of my decease, the survivor shall 
receive the five thousand dollars.’ ’ 

“And should both be dead at your demise? What 
then ? ’’ 

“ The next legal heir of both shall inherit the sum.’’ 

‘ ‘And if there be no heir ? Mrs. Molada has no relative 
beside Harry.” 

“ In that case it shall form the nucleus of an endowment 
for the Toronto Molada Newsboys’ Hall.” 

“Good.” 

“One more item. To little Bald6ra Trueman three 
thousand dollars. Mayor Hector Mowbank, the Rev. Dr. 
Glenavon and her father to be executors. She may draw 
the interest, if needed, for the completion of her education. 
It is settled absolutely on herself, she to have control of the 
principal on her twenty-fifth birthday. Trueman is a true 
reform, I am convinced, but my Gertrude wishes this thing 
done. I am a better man since Gertrude grew up. I do all 
this * co-ditch-il ’ to please her. ’ ’ 

“ She is a noble girl. This thing does you credit. Is 
that all?” 

“Yes. I will call on Saturday morning at io o’clock, 
and have this co-ditch-il executed.” 

“Good. We will be ready. That Molada concert was 
an original affair, and an immense treat. Mrs. Molada is a 
remarkable personality. Harry is a new edition of her, and 
she has trained him wonderfully well.” 


At Last. 


125 


‘ ‘ Gertrude raves about her. She says nobody has an 
idea of her pure and exalted character. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I hope she may recover by her stay in Italy. The 
laddie, humanly speaking, could ill lose her, such a 
mother, now. How much did the concert realize ? ” 

‘ ‘Over two thousand dollars, Gertrude tells me, and then 
there is the purse beside. ’ ’ 

“Oh, that will take them well to next June. The little 
fellow did a good thing for poor Trueman. ‘A little child 
shall lead them.’ Even Dr. Glenavon could do nothing.” 

“ There is another matter, Mr. Goodwill, but it must be 
strict confidence between you and myself. Gertrude has 
gained my promise to do it, and she is the only being on 
earth who knows anything concerning the matter. I hand 
you a cheque for two thousand dollars, payable to yourself. 
It is destined for Mrs. Molada, and Gertrude desired to give 
this sum out of her own fortune, but I would not permit 
that. Do me the favor of sending this sum to Mrs. Molada 
through your agent in Paris, in such a way that she can 
never discover whence it came, and at once. She is to 
spend a few days in Paris before going further south, so 
there is sufficient time to accomplish this. There are so 
many expences in foreign travel, and Gertrude wishes her 
spiritual mother to enjoy every comfort, and to be able to 
have a villa, for home quiet and perfect rest — and to drive. 
Both my daughter and myself owe this noble woman a 
changed life and higher aims, and from my wealth I can well 
do this without injury to either my wife or daughters. 
We are taught to ‘bear one another’s burdens,’ but men’s 


126 


At Last . 


talk don’t ‘bear’ anything; there is so much talk, so little 
do. Do not fail to send this money with this week’s mail. 
Post restante is the address.” 

“ It shall be en route to-day.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE BISHOP OF HOLLIKULLIWOGONY. 


ENTS AGEN — ENTS AGEN. 



HAT last week before the voyage flew by on swiftest 


1 wing, and was a memorable one to some of the friends 
of this true story. There was a re-union and 5 o’clock tea 
for the innermost circle of Tintern Abbey, and among the 
guests was the Bishop of Hollikulliwogony, who had 
returned to Canada from his mission-field in India, for a 
year’s rest from the tropical heat, and his arduous pastoral 
and literary work. 

Bishop Taborno was still in the prime of his manhood, 
tall and stately, with a princely mien, without a trace of 
hauteur, great suavity of manners, and kindness of heart. 
His black eye had lost none of its keen penetration, and his 
black curly hair had not yet been touched with snow. One 
needed not to spend many moments in his fascinating society 
without making the discovery that here was a consecrated 
soul, and a consecrated life. One was reminded of the 
sainted Bishop Heber, who made a holocaust of his being 
to the King, and whose writings breathe such a pure spirit. 

Bishop Taborno was a life- friend of the Underhills and 
the Moladas, and the Rev. Dr. Glenavon was to his heart 


128 


At Last. 


knit, not only by a pleasant student life at Oxford, but by 
the holy vows they had each assumed. This little re-union 
was both in honor of the good Bishop’s return, and of the 
Moladas who were so soon to depart. 

It was a warm August afternoon, but not oppressive; tea 
was served on the lawn, and the perfect freedom of the 
highest breeding reigned. Bishop Taborno was highly de- 
lighted with Gabrielle and Harry, neither of whom he had 
seen, and it was his great regret that he had not arrived in 
time for the now famous concert. He was himself a passion- 
ate lover of music, could sing a tenor well, and had trans- 
lated and set to music, some of our grand English hymns 
for the use of the church in India. 

The Bishop was not long in proposing music, and the 
friends repaired to the Doria, where Gabrielle had still her 
piano and harp for summer practice, and Mrs. Underhill her 
lute. Harry, by special entreaty, had brought Mrs. Molada’s 
guitarre. 

Beneath the burning lights of a radiant sunset, they sang 
some of the hymns so precious to all Christians, no matter 
what their church, for is it not the deep-lying sentiment of 
all holy souls, — Christian unity and brotherly love ? A holy 
union and unity for work for souls, even if they can not 
agree on all points, so long as they live love ? The various 
churches are hastening to learn this great need, and truth of 
the age. Bishop Taborno’ s favorite hymn was; — Baring 
Gould’s “ Onward Christian Soldiers, marching as to war,” 
and they sang that first. Then Lyte’s “Abide with me, 
fast falls the eventide,” then followed that pathetic 


At Last . 


r 29 


and thrilling hymn from the German, by Alexander Ber- 
nard, “O Sacred Head, once wounded,” (“ < 9 , Haupt , 
volt Blut und W unden"'). Then Toplady’s ‘‘Rock of 
Ages cleft for me,” that no church could do without now, 
and Charles Wesley’s ‘‘Jesus, Lover of my soul,” no less 
precious and dear. Now came the consecration, ‘‘Take my 
life and let it be,” ‘‘Forever here my rest shall be,” ‘‘Go 
labor on, spend and be spent,” and “I gave my life for 
thee.” Then the part iii of the hymn, “Jerusalem the 
golden, with milk and honey bless’ d,” and they concluded 
with Faber’s 


“ O Paradise, O Paradise, 

Who doth not crave for rest ? 

Who would not seek the happy land, 

Where they that loved are blest; 

Where loyal hearts, and true, 

Stand ever in the light, 

All rapture through and through, 

In God’s most holy sight? ” 

While these hallowed melodies and words floated over the 
rippleless Ontario, many an oar ceased its rowing, and the 
numerous boats on the lake took up the strains and bore 
them far, and it was as a divine benediction descending from 
the expanding heavens. 

“Oh,” said Bishop Taborno, his countenance aglow with 
an exalted enthusiasm, “I have listened to ravishing music 
on the Swiss Geneva and Neuchatel, but not so sublime and 
soul-inspiring as this.” 

Then Gabrielle and Harry went out on the terraces among 


130 


At Last. 


the whispering flowers, Judge Underhill and Dr. Glenavon 
rambled down to the barchetta at the pier-head, Mrs Under- 
hill carried ofl Mrs. Glenavon to show her some fine passion 
flowers and pomegranates at the Ionic Temple in the wilder- 
ness, and so it chanced that Mrs. Molada and Bishop Tab- 
orno were left alone. 

“Will you play that beautiful composition, Mrs. Molada, 
you used to play before I went to India ? ’ ’ asked the Bishop. 
“ It was your own, and you called it Entsagen.” 

Mrs. Molada had written it at Lake Como, as the outlet of 
a bitter grief, and she played it to-night with a depth of 
feeling that was a partial revealing of her life-history. 

“ That is most exquisite, but very sad,” said the Bishop. 

She went on sweeping lightly the strings of her guitarre. 

“I regret your leaving us so soon. I hope you will be 
benefitted by your stay in the Riviera.” 

“Thank you heartily for your wish; I hope so too for 
Harry’s sake.” 

“ He is a remarkable lad. No doubt God has some great 
work for him.” 

“ I believe he has. It is also Harry’s idea. When do 
you return to India, Bishop Taborno ? ” 

“A year from this September is the command. In the 
meantime I have much work laid out — much translating for 
the mission work. You propose returning to Toronto next 
June, do you not? ” 

“That is the intention, if my health be restored. I am 
much better this warm weather; it is the severity of the 
Canadian winter- of which my medical adviser is so 


At Last. 


131 

apprehensive. A cold wind or a heavy rain excites the 
cough to an alarming degree.” 

“ I need not assure you what a delight it is to me, dear 
Mrs. Molada, to renew our old friendship. Will you permit 
me to ask you that question again ? Upon your reply my 
happines, and, possibly, my usefulness, largely depend. 
Should your health be restored, will you be my wife, and go 
out with me to India? Do not give me your answer, now, 
dear friend. I need not tell you my heart has never changed 
since our last interview and parting at the Hermitage. And 
you see I have kept my word. I have not married. I shall 
never marry if you say me nay. I need such a counsellor 
and friend as you. My soul yearns for you in the loneliness 
of Indianism. I could do my work infinitely better pos- 
sessed of your love and companionship. Be my wife, and 
together we will toil with the Master. And I will be a true 
father to Harry.” He seized her hand and kissed it. 

“Do not answer me now. I can not return to India 
without you. You have not forgotten that last ramble along 
the banks of the leaping Silver Brook? I never. I was 
not aware till that hour that you were an affianced bride, 
and your affianced found a soldier’s death in a foreign land, 
and you did not become his after all. Do you remember 
what you wrote that sunset hour, sitting on a granite rock ? 
See here! ” 

He drew from a breast-pocket a little morocco case, and 
displayed a poem written in pencil. “ I begged you for it, 
I have carried it ever since. You are free now, and I dare 
approach you. Listen till I read the sweet lines so dear to 


IS 2 


At Last. 


me, for you say ‘ we.’ You wrote them as a sudden impulse, 
you thought the lines worthless, — to me they have been as 
pearls. ’ ’ He read : 

We stood by the stream in the twilight, 

’Neath the sunset’s crimson glow, 

And the fire of the dying sunlight 
Gleamed bright in the river’s flow. 

The rosy blush of the waterfall 
Met gently the sky’s deep blue, 

And the floating cloud-fleece over all, 

Lent its tints to the blending too. 

With quick’ning pulse and throbbing heart, 

We gazed on the wondrous scene, 

And gladly we took a trembling part 
In the anthem of praise, I ween. 

And mystic dreams of the Great and True 
United with murmur and song; 

And purple, crimson, and softer hue 
Spoke to us of the angel throng. 

Thy moods are sweet, oh brooklet fair, 

And lovely thy rock-strewn glen; 

Shine on, sing on, in thy beauty rare, 

Till I greet thee with joy again. 

“You cut off all hope for me then by that ‘ I ’ in the 
last line. That was inevitable then — the case has changed. ’ ’ 
Mrs. Molada had turned very pale; her frame trembled; 
she was incapable of uttering a single word. Her gaze was 
fixed on the splendors of the golden sunsetting. A couplet 
rang in her ears, uttered long ago by a voice now silent — 


At Last . 


133 


“ Lo yonder golden-sun! 

The sky aud waters blend in one.” 

That friend was now a “shade,” a “light” in Dante’s 
Paradiso. 

A thousand memories awoke and trooped through her 
soul. There was a pause. The two children were near the 
Doria, and their voices could be heard. The Judge and Dr. 
Glenavon were returning from their walk, Mrs. Underhill 
and Mrs. Glenavon were descending the Dante allee. 

Mrs. Molada’s trembling fingers swept lightly the guitarre, 
and Bishop Taborno said leaning toward her: 

“ You will write me from the Riviera? You will corres- 
pond with me ? ” 

“Yes, I will write, but, amico mio , you do not wish for a 
broken heart ? ’ ’ 

“No, no, say not so. A new love, a new life will awaken. 
Oh, my love, my love! Ten weary years since we met, and 
now to part again so soon ! ’ ’ 

Mrs. Molada let the guitarre speak again. The chords 
rang out deliciously, but sadly, on the evening air, their bur- 
den entsagen, entsagen! * 

“ Listen amico mio she said, “ ‘ Entsagen ist des Men- 
schen Schicksal,' ‘Take up thy cross and follow me,’ ‘The 
servant is not greater than his Lord.’ What if it be India 
alone ? ’ ’ 

* Enstagen signifies to abdicate, to resign. It contains the idea of perfect self- 
renunciation, and the yielding up of all. We have no English word that conveys 
its full meaning. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


THE ATLANTIC VOYAGE. 


“ That which befalls, 


She said, befalls not otherwise 
Than as it hath been willed.” 


O! Then what becomes of free will ? Man has free will. 



O God, the Omnipotent, the Omniscient, governs this 
universe. Man has not free will ? He is incapable of choos- 
ing right, since his will is perverted by the fall ? Then he is 
not at all responsible. Where there is no freedom there can 
not be responsibility. That is indisputable, as a priori , as 
that one body can not occupy two spaces at the same time, 
or that twice nothing make nothing. 

If man can not obey, why did God command “ Love thy 
neighbor as thyself? ” If “ God is love,” and if he governs 
this universe for the universal good , the happiness of His 
creatures, he can not, consistent with his nature and attri- 
butes, give any impossible law, one that can not be obeyed. 
That is as clear as where total darkness is, there is no light. 
Evil is. Sin is. Sorrow is. Suffering is. Monstrous 
wrongs and injustice prevail. Did God decree them ? Did 
He will evil, sin ? “ God is not the author of evil.” God is 

not the author of sin, for He is absolutely holy. 

Here we stand face to face with an inscrutable mystery. 


At Last. 


35 


The origin of evil, sin, has not been clearly explained. But, 
as there can exist only one Infinity, and since that Infinity is 
holy per se, sin must have had its origin in the Finite. 
God created man and all intelligent beings, with power to 
choose, pointed out to them that holiness, and holiness 
alone, meant happiness, and gave a command. Self opposed 
itself to the Creator, and chose self-gratification to God. It 
is not my province to follow out the argument here; but to 
my own mind the thought underlying all, and that which 
leads up to it, are clear. “God is love.” Faith waits. 
1 ‘ God is his own interpreter, and he will make it plain. ’ ’ 
Let us consider some of the characters of this true story with 
reference to this question. 

It was not God’s will that Mr. Trueman should drink 
himself into a beast, almost into perdition. He had the 
consciousness all the time, that he was breaking God’s law, 
for the law is, “ Look not upon the wine when it is red, 
when it giveth its color in the cup, for at the last it biteth 
like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.” But self, in the 
person of appetite said, “ I will drink; it gives me pleasure.” 
He knew that it was suicidal, that he had no right to injure 
his body, because it was not his , and because to injure the 
body long enough, meant death, — eternal. He knew per- 
fectly “ Ye are not your own, ye are bought with a price,” 
why? To secure happiness, true happiness. And Mr. 
Trueman always meant to stop “sometime — soon,” just as 
you do; but you will find, as he did, that self, long indulged, 
gains strength with every yielding and fall, till he becomes 
the strong man among the tombs, that can not be bound 
with chains. 


136 


At Last. 


Did God will that the Ruby should sell him alcohol to the 
death? You dare not maintain that. Even the Ruby dare 
not. Will you say it is God’s will that Hellgate Brewery 
shall go on distilling that which so degrades man if he drink 
it? You dare not maintain it in your dying hour. Your 
blinkers will fall* then, and you will see. 

Oh, Christians! — in name at least, why will you not take 
the stand that William Beatty, Esq. of Parry Sound has 
taken ? If you all would do that, this accnrsed traffic would 
soon find an end. He will not permit a drop of the infernal 
brew on his estates, nor among his men anywhere. “Touch 
not, taste not, handle not.” “ Come out from among them, 
and be separate.” You can not fathom the mystery of sor- 
row. Can you not in Mr. Trueman’s case? “Christ must 
needs have suffered.” Why? Sin. And you, like Paul, 
must “ fill up that which is behind of the afflictions of Christ.” 
Why? Sin. Sin — death. Cause and effect. There can 
be no other answer. 

Jack Drinkdregs had become a light among the boys. 
He always carried his Anti-Sin cards in his pocket, and many 
a boy on the downward road he rescued. Dr. Glenavon 
found a permanent place for Mr. Drinkdregs, and he is 
working among the sots. 

Poor Pat Donegal had never fallen through the wine-cup, 
though his temptations had been great, his environment un- 
favorable. Why did he stand? My replv is God’s word, 
“ The Holy Spirit is given to every man to profit withal.” 
Poor Pat had his wish. The day after the happy re-union 
at Tintern Abbey, his soul degarmented and went to God, 


At Last . 


137 


and the sonless widow wept. All the newsboys, and other 
boys, went to his funeral, and planted a Lebens Baum — 
tree of life, cedar, by his grave, and laid flowers upon it, 
and sang beside it — “We shall meet beyond the river,” 
and there was one poor boy less on earth, one more in 
heaven. 

As our friends, Mrs. Molada and Harry sailed past Staaten 
Island and Sandy Hook into the ocean, the New York 
Harbor was resplendent under a brilliant sun, and the beau- 
tiful Liberty on her islet, stretched forth her flaming torch 
as resolutely as ever. Oh, thou divine Liberty! What 
would existence be worth without thee? All told, there 
were eighteen hundred souls on board, and when they had 
finally reached a rough sea, many of the passengers seemed 
to be suffering from a violent attack of Lokomotor Ataxia. 

On Sunday there was a most solemn and impressive ser- 
vice, and the people sang hymns on deck in the afternoon. 
Monday brought one of the most singular and beautiful 
sunsets ever beheld on any sea. I draw a picture of it in 
words as I saw it, and at the time. The sun’s golden disc, 
set in a frame, as it were, of soft clouds, gradually approached 
the horizon, now and then a band of soft purple floating 
across, and then slowly sank into the deep blue of the ocean, 
reflecting upward vast masses of ruddy-golden lights. And 
then followed the most striking and wonderful developments 
of cloud-land scenery. 

First, on the southern horizon marched Ruskin’s “ Silent 
procession,” inexpressibly lovely in sapphire blue and white. 
Beyond, behind, above, spread a vast sea of translucent 


At Last. 


138 

pearl, with another sea of delicate rose behind, shining 
through. On its surface seemed to float innumerables isles 
in varied forms, and most delicate tints of amber, crimson, 
purple, blue, while behind towered titanic mountain-ranges 
in opals, pearls, rubies, sapphires. On this crystal-rose sea, 
through an opening amid the isles, and far behind them, and 
below the mountains, seemed to move forward a stately ship 
in blue, its masts like pearls, while from its funnel a soft gray 
smoke curled slowly up and away. These wondrous forms 
and lights varied with every instant, and were distinctly be- 
yond the power of language to describe, or the painter’s 
brush, for the changing forms and colors were produced by 
perpetual motion. 

As Mrs. Molada gazed, she thought of Elijah’s cohorts in 
panoply of fire, and imagination filled the vast perspective 
with the existences of those unapproachable spheres to us 
now incomprehensible. Almost imperceptibly the glories 
faded into grays, until night added her finishing touches, 
and, somehow, she felt she had almost caught a glimpse of 
the empyrean. 

There is a fit answer to the searcher after truth, whose eye 
would fain pierce the veil that hides the infinite; he is not 
left with only the reply of Nirwana. “What thou knowest 
not now, thou shalt know hereafter.’’ The inexhaustible 
refreshment ot the salt air seemed to fill our friends with un- 
tiring energy. 

Harry was very busy learning sea-terms, and how to tell 
time from the bells, watching the lights in the water at night, 
feeding the sea-gulls, above all, talking to the officers and 


At Last. 


139 


men, with whom he had become an immense favorite. 
They landed at Liverpool at night-fall, and no passenger 
was more rejoiced to set foot on terra firma than poor Don 
Pedro, who leaped and pranced and wheeled like a dog 
insane at the recovery of his liberty. 


CHAPTER XV. 


DOLCE FAR NIENTE. 


“ Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock to rock.” 

“ Still ailing, Wind ? Wilt be appeased or no ? 

Which needs the other’s office, thou or I ? 

Dost want to be disburthened of a woe, 

And can, in truth, my voice untie 
Its links, and let it go ? ” 

F all the sea-side resorts of South England, none can 



V outcharm the Devonshire Queen Ilfracombe, dream- 
ing among the flowers, and gazing with such a happy face 
on the English Channel. 

“Oh, how lovely mater!” cried Harry, as they sat at 
their late breakfast the morning after their arrival; “the sea 
is so blue, and there seem to be boats going in every di- 
rection. ’ ’ 

“You may gather lovely ferns here, the gold fern and the 
maidenhair, and we can ramble by the sea as much as we 
please, it is so deliciously mild. We will stay here a little 
while — a week, I fancy — and grow strong. And while I sit, 
and write, and breathe this invigorating air, so full of ozone , 
you and Don Pedro can roam the beach, and plunge into 
the waves, and climb the rocks.” 


At Last. 


141 

Many, too, were the quiet rambles, and the sweet sur- 
prises they had together in this lovely spot. One morning, 
Harry laden with ferns, as they were walking among the 
lanes and hedges, listening to the various sounds of sea, and 
bird-songs, a new motif was added. The words rang out 
full and clear — 


“Jesus, my heart’s dear refuge, 

Jesus has died for me, 

Firm on the Rock of Ages 
Ever my trust shall be. 

Here let me wait in patience — 

Wait till the night is o’er, 

Wait till I see the morning 
Break on the golden shore. 

Safe in the arms of Jesus, 

Safe on his gentle breast, 

There by his love o’ershadow’d, 

Sweetly my soul shall rest.” 

It was a pathetic girlish voice, and it seemed to give a 
strong emphasis to “night” and “see.” 

Mrs. Molada and Harry followed the sounds of the voice, 
and soon, at a sharp turn in the winding path, a pretty white 
cottage, half-buried in flowers, stood before them, at a short 
distance to the left. Honeysuckle covered the porch, the 
windows were full of flower-pots, and a carefully-kept flower- 
garden surrounded it. In front of the cottage, on a low 
chair, sat a blind girl. Her face was turned upward as she 
sang. 

They paused and listened. She repeated the lines — 


At Last. 


142 

“ Wait till the night is o’er, 

Wait till I see the morning ” — 

At that moment a woman came to the door, and Mrs. 
Molada motioned to her to keep silence. The blind girl 
finished the last verse, and then began the hymn again. It 
was evidently a favorite. When she had finished the first 
verse, Harry could keep silence no longer and he joined in 
the second verse. The blind girl stopped to listen, but 
Harry went on, and she began again. When the second 
verse was finished, she said: 

‘ ‘A strange voice, mother, do you hear ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, Esther.” 

Mrs. Molada approached and explained that they were 
strangers, and on their morning walk, had heard the singing, 
and followed the voice. 

“ Good morning, Esther,” she said, “do you see me?” 

“Oh, no mam! I have never seen. I was born blind.” 

“ It is my son Harry who joined in your hymn. We are 
very fond of singing. Shall we sing that beautiful hymn 
together ? ’ ’ 

Mrs. Kemp, the mother, brought out a couple of chairs, 
they sat down, and all sang the lines that brought such joy 
to Esther. 

‘ ‘ I wonder what it will be like to see ? ’ ’ she said when 
they had finished. “Will you let me take your hand, 
Harry ? I like your voice. I have never heard one like it. 
Will you sing something you like ? ” 

“Gladly,” and he sang, “I know that my Redeemer 
liveth. * ’ The blind girl clapped her hands — she seemed all ear. 


At Last. 


H3 


“ Oh, how sweet! Please sing again.” 

And Harry sang, ‘ ‘ God is a spirit, and they that worship 
Him, must worship Him in spirit and in truth.” 

“ Oh, how good it was of God to let you come and sing 
to me! ” she cried. “ I shall know you by your voice when 
‘ I see the morning.’ ” 

After a little conversation, Esther said: “ There is a poor, 
bed-ridden woman just three cottages from ours, following 
the path that runs behind ours. She lives all alone, and the 
neighbors take care of her. Will you go and sing to her ? ” 

“ Yes, gladly,” said Harry, “and if you like, I will come 
to-morrow morning and sing with you again. We shall 
only be here to-morrow.” 

“Just lift the latch and go in,” said Mrs. Kemp; “ that is 
the way we all do. Mrs. Hill is a beautiful Christian.” 

Mrs. Molada ‘ ‘ lifted the latch, ’ ’ and Harry followed her 
in. “How do you do, Mrs. Hill?” she said. “We are 
strangers, and Esther Kemp told us about you, and we — 
this is my son Harry — are come to see you, and sing if you 
would like. I am glad you know Christ.” 

“Yes,” she replied, “Jesus is with me all the time. I 
shall be going home soon. It can not be long now. I am 
glad to see you; please sit down.” 

Mrs. Molada began in a low voice to sing, Harry joining 
her, “Abide with me.” And then Harry sang “Jerusalem, 
my happy home! ” and “Tell it to Jesus,” and “ Draw me 
nearer,” and here and there the quavering aged voice put 
in a note. And then Mrs. Molada read and prayed with 
the aged saint. 


144 


At Last . 


“ I shall know you,” she said, “when we meet above. 
Thank you for coming,” she added as they took leave. 

“ Mutterchen! Little mother! ” 

“Yes, dearie.” 

“ Was it not good of God to let us comfort those dear 
people ? Whoever would have thought of anything so 
pleasant ? I do feel so happy when I can help anyone. ’ ’ 

“ God does us an honor we do not deserve.” 

The following morning they found a little company 
assembled at Esther’s cottage, and some of her child-friends, 
and together they sang several hymns, and Harry had to 
sing for them, and many a tear was brushed away, and many 
a troubled one was comforted. And then they went to say 
a final good-bye to old Mrs. Hill, for whom Harry had 
brought a basket of fruit. Returning by another path, they 
could hear voices at Esther’s cottage singing “ There is no 
night in Heaven,” and the melody floated, out over the sea. 

One evening, just at sunset, Harry found Mrs. Molada 
kneeling on the sands, the tide was out, stylus in hand. 

“ What are you doing, mater ? ” 

“ Drawing an illustration of the lines I have just written.” 

“ The rising tide will wash it all out.” 

“ Yes, that is true. To me that is the best part of it.” 

“So! I see a cross — an anchor — a star — a — ” 

“ Listen till I read the wee poem; then you will under- 
stand the sketch.” 

Harry sat down on the sands, and Don Pedro planted 
himself near. 

“ Now little iftother! Read. Don Pedro is waiting. He 


At Last. 


145 


looks like a poem himself. He understands more than we 
think.” 

“ I believe you are right. He is a ‘ knowing dog.’ Oh, 
you laugh at me. But he is.” 

THE CROSS ON THE SANDS. 

At evening I walked on the ocean shore, 

When the shadows were gathering fast, 

The sun seemed to linger, then pause, to pour 
His fading crimson on sea and mast; 

And the waves gently sighed 
In their gold-purple pride, 

Leave us not; oh! come back once more.” 

In the ebbing tide a shivering moan 
Struck a chord in my sorrowing heart: 

The sea, like my life, lay there bleak and lone, 

Where no light, or joy, or hope had part; 

Dull gray in the gloaming, 

Quivering and moaning, 

“ O light! O beauty! come once more,” 

I knelt in the gray on the moistened sand, 

And drew there a cross, the type of woe, 

Then the crown and anchor, with trembling hand, 

And pain in the heart that none could know, 

Above I drew the star, — 

Of sunny hope the star, — 

That in the west afar 
In golden letters wrote, ‘ once more. ’ 

The darkness was past and the morning fair, 

Again I roamed by the shining sea, 

I sought on the sands — my cross was not there, 

Neither mist, gloom, nor cloud could I see; 


146 


At Last. 


And the waves seemed to say, 

Tossing lightly their spray, 

“ Shrink not from thy sorrow, 

A brighter to-morrow 
Shall bring thee eternity’s land, 

Keep the sunshine within, 

Lay thy cross upon Him 
Who hath borne it for thee, 

Then thy cross shall but be 
Like thy cross on the sea- washed strand.” 

“ Sweetest mater! Carissima mia! You ‘ keep the sunshine 
within ,’ for it shines in your face always, even when you 
look so sad,” cried Harry, embracing her, “and I know 
dear blind Esther felt that ‘ sunshine,’ though only with her 
Faith- eyes. Look! How Venus shines to-night! ” 

“And these lines may do for our sail to France, — 

May we not be like ships at sea, 

That perish in the storm, 

But always Him, our “ Refuge ” see, 

Whose ever-living form 
Once here the raging billows trod, 

As Son of Man — and God.” 

“ Read something else, Carissima.” 

“ Here is a little thing ” — 

REVERIE— FAREWELL. 

Birds and pleasures come and go, 

The flower, withering, falls, 

The light of summer’s richest glow, 

Fades in dreary winter’s halls. 


At Last. 


*47 


Waves that gently flow, and kiss 
The undulating, pebbly beach, 

Sleep and dream of endless bliss, 

And seem to be beyond the reach 

Of raging storm and tempest wild, 

The winds shall lash to snowy foam, 

And friends and strangers flee in dread, 

None daring on the sands to roam, 

Blackness beneath and overhead. 

Now in soft and gentle ripples, 

Ilfracombe her face displays, 

In the sunlit, crystal dimples 
Linger notes of other days. 

Shades of vanished froms float past me, 

Songs and laughter strike mine ear, 

Voices that will no more greet me, 

Tones I never more shall hear. 

Hands that I fain would clasp are gone, 

Smiles I loved are veiled and lost, 

Ah! faces that in love have shone, 

To the golden shores have crossed. 

The steamboat whistle wakes my dreams, 

Far I see thy fluttering robe; 

The daylight fades in sunset-gleams, — 

Now no eye the dark can probe. 

“That is so sad Carissima! Will you never laugh again 
as you used to do ? ’ * 




CHAPTER XVI. 


LA BELLE FRANCE. 


“ I see thee yet, fair France — thou favor’d land 
Of art and nature — thou art still before me; 

Thy sons, to whom their labor is a sport, 

So well thy grateful soil returns its tribute; 

Thy sunburnt daughters, with their laughing eyes, 
And glossy raven locks. But, favor’d France; 
Thou hast had many a tale of woe to tell, 


In ancient times as now.” 


HE white cliffs of Dover, and Dover Castle, seated aloft 



1 on its rock-cliffs, offer an imposing view to the steady- 
brain from the steamboat on the restless straits, but I fear 
the recollections of many travelers are somewhat indistinct, 
among whom I find myself compelled to reckon the hero of 
this story. He had not become sufficiently “ salted down,” 
and his 4 ‘ sea-legs ’ ’ firm enough from a single Atlantic 
shaking and sifting, to defy the turbulent waters of Dover 


straits. 


Mrs. Molada remained on deck during the transit, and 
was rewarded with an empress^e salute from a huge green 
wave that rolled over her to the shoulders — she was never a 
victim of mal de mer , and Harry, assuming a manly air, 
seated himself beside her. 


At Last. 


149 


u Mater, I am going to stay on deck with you all the way 
from Dover to Calais ! ’ * 

But the winds grew wilder, and the waves joined in the 
plot, for it was not likely that they, generally victors, were 
to be defied by a mere Toronto laddie. Poor Harry grew 
ghostly pale, and finally disappeared to be seen not again 
till the short voyage was ended. 

En route a Paris , at Abbeville they contented themselves 
with a distant view of its cathedral, and at Amiens they had 
an amusing experience — to Mrs. Molada not the first. The 
convoi — train — drew up in the station, and one heard 
“ twenty minutes for dinner! ” accompanied by a ferocious 
ringing of bells. Our friends made their way, with many 
more, to the buffet. A most tempting repast was served 
ready at each couvert , and every guest was required to pay 
before dining. No sooner was this demand complied with, 
than “all aboard! le convoi part pour Paris!” resounded 
with startling vehemence, and they had not been more than 
five minutes at the buffet. Don Pedro grew excited and 
began to bark. 

Mrs. Molada quietly handed Harry a serviette and a news- 
paper from her lunch-basket. “ Do what you see me do.” 
She took the chicken, buttered a couple of rolls, gathered 
up tarts, cakes and grapes. ‘ ‘ These things are ours — we 
can not fast to Paris.” 

The others followed her example, and the passengers 
carried their luncheon with them into the convoi with much 
merriment, minus coffee, knives, forks and spoons, while 
the attendant gar^ons stood and looked on aghast and 
open-mouthed. 


At Last. 


150 

While our friends ate their rescued repast, Mrs. Molada 
said: 

“I have a sketch made in the Cathedral at Amiens, 
arches and foliated corbels from the nave, I have brought 
my travel-sketch-book, and we will go through it this 
evening. The Cathedral is a chef cL oeuvre of architecture, 
many think it the finest in France; it is one of the noblest 
types of the mediaeval Gothic, with its magnificent lofty 
nave, and the majestic perspective through a perfect wilder- 
ness of arches and columns. And the front facade is not 
less imposing, adorned with rich carvings, light pyramids 
and bas-reliefs, representing the Last Judgment, crowned 
with those noble towers and the slender spire.” 

Saturday, their first day in Paris, they consecrated by a 
visit to the M’All Mission, and they enjoyed a pleasant 
interview with Mr. and Mrs. M’All, who, in all the fervor of 
Christian love, have devoted life to this great work. On 
Sunday they attended those points where Mr. M’All was to 
speak, and never did our hero sing the beautiful hymns in 
the French language with more passionate fervor One was 
forcibly struck by the humility and the deep earnestness of 
the Rev. R. W. M’All. How quietly yet how valiantly he 
fought against the vices of Paris, and how he strove to win 
souls. Many a hardened one he won by his ardent love 
and pity. What power there was in the simple expression, 

‘ fe vous aime , et Dieu vous aime. ’ ’ * 

On Monday they began to explore a few of the wonders 
of the gay French capital. 

♦Since this was written the great missionary, the Rev. R. W. M’All, has gone 
up higher. 


At Last. 


151 

“We must omit much, Harry, but we shall perhaps 
return at some future time — you at least, ch6ri ! ’ ’ 

“ Not without you, mater — that would be no pleasure.” 

“You see your education is going on constantly, cheri, 
and you are preparing to take your place in the great 
Campadrome of life fearlessly, to assume every duty and 
responsibility con amove. 

See, there is the site of the Tuileries, ruins even all gone 
now. I saw it in ruins, and in all its splendor, too, the long 
suites of apartments, the throne-room, be-frescoed, be- 
mirrored, graced by the lovely Eugenie Napoleon III, et 
‘ le Petit Prince.’ I find it difficult to think of Paris with- 
out the interesting old palace, such a landmark in French 
history, the scene of such pageantries and tragedies. In 
the time of the Franco-German war the French themselves 
cut down all the grand trees, more than a century old, of 
the private gardens of the Tuileries, under whose shade a 
million of little children have played, among them that poor 
little Dauphin who should have been Louis XVII, whose 
fate was so wretched. Poor wee laddie! They cut down, 
also, the Bois de Boulogne, the trees 01 the Champs 
Elysees and the Boulevards from dire necessity, to keep 
from freezing. Le Chateau de Saint Cloud is also in ruins, 
destroyed by the French themselves in their frenzy. Quiet 
Malmaison, too, truly a shrine, the shrine of a great heart 
broken. From this site what a brilliant vista down the 
green Champs Elys6es to the Arc de Triomphe! How the 
Place de la Concorde, its obelisk and its leaping fountains, 
throw up the light into the blue! ” 


152 


At Last. 


“ Yes, all trace of the old Temple prison is gone. I will 
show you the two famous busts, Marie Antoinette Dauphine, 
and Marie Antoinette au Temple, a whole life-story in each, 
but simply dreadful in contrast. The Temple belonged to 
that rich and powerful fraternity, the Knights Templars. 
After their destruction, through envy and fear of their 
power, it became the celebrated prison.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


IN SAINT DENIS AND NOTRE DAME, PARIS. 
HE legend is that when Saint Denis was beheaded on 



1 Montmartre, he took up his head, tucked it under his 
arm and ran with it until he came to the site of the Royal 
Abbey, where he laid it down as a signal that there a church 
must be built. Nothing remains of any of the original 
structures, for there were several, save the crypt. 

What Westminster Abbey is to England, and Speier to 
Germany, that is Saint Denis to France. Dagobert I, the 
founder, was the first laid to rest in the royal vaults in 638. 
Pepin le Bref was the first king crowned here it is said, in 
752, so we are indeed on historical ground. It is of Gothic 
architecture, and of a pale gray, almost white stone. From 
the nave, which is imposing and- beautiful, one has a coup 
d' oeil of the choir, elevated above, and separated from it by 
a rich screen; of the aisles, and numerous chapels, and the 
gorgeous tombeaux of Bourbon and earlier monarchs. 
The effect of the whole is most grand, impressive, solemn. 

Mrs. Molada and Harry had been walking and studying 
this petrified history of France, and were leaving the 
chcLpelle in which is the sculptured figure of Marie Antoi- 
nette, kneeling before a prie Dieu , near her Catharine de 
Medicis and other queens, when they were suddenly startled 
by a voice at some distance, ^exclaiming: 


*54 


At Last. 


“ There now! I’ve broke my pencil! I can’t take my 
notes, and when I go back to Kentucky, everybody’ll 
expect me to know all about Saint Denis, and I cay? t 
remember it all no how. Here, Susie, you go right over to 
that shop and buy me a pencil — quick! ” 

Mrs. Kentucky and Susie were with a party being 
conducted to see the hidden treasures of the abbey, and our 
friends joined it. 

“ Never mind, mother,” said Susie, “ I will remember and 
write it all for you afterward.” 

“ No , Susie, I want my own pencil — what this pencil 
wanted to go and break for! ” 

A French gentleman approached her — “ Voulez vous me 
permettre Madame? Je taillerai votre crayon .” 

“ What does he say, Susie ? ” 

“ Monsieur offers to sharpen your pencil, mother.” 

“ Well, that’s real kind.” 

Monsieur le Crayon sharpened the pencil. Later, look- 
ing at the paintings in the sacristy, Mrs. Kentucky cried: 

“Susie, what did the man say that big yellow thing is 
standing over by that ’ere window ? ” 

“ I do not know, mother; I did not understand him.” 

“ 1 Didn’t understand him! ’ And you’ve been in Paris 
three hull months to learn French! Good land! ” 

Monsieur le Crayon explained that it was the gold bas 
relief of the Last Supper, the communion salver presented 
to the Abbey by Francois Premier — Francis I. 

“ La, now, you don’t mean to say its all gold ? ” 

“ Si, Madame .” 


At Last. 


55 


When the relics of Saint Denis were shown, in their costly 
casket, Susie tried to translate to her mother, but when the 
sacristan told the legend, Mrs. Kentucky’s indignation burst 
forth. 

“Tain’t true, no how. No man never run without his 
head, with it under his arm, all that way, dead! Such a 
thing ain’t possible.” 

“ Si, Madame; c’ est tout a fait vrai, c’est," said Monsieur 
le Crayon. 

“It ain't true. You needn’t tell me. I guess I know.” 

During the great revolution, the Oriflamme , the banner 
of the Crusader- King, St. Louis — neuf — was torn in pieces 
by the infuriated mobs, the stained windows shattered, and 
the tombeaux injured, and had not some unknown friends of 
royalty concealed much, these splendid works of art of 
former ages, would in all probability have been totaly des- 
troyed. 

How much of rare and costly art, so precious to the 
history of nations, has been scattered and lost by insane, 
unreasoning multitudes. The tombeau of Dagobert I, the 
most ancient, is very curious. The tombs of Francis I, 
and Queen Claude, and of the Valois sovereigns Louis XII, 
and Ann of Bretagne, and Henry II, and Catharine de 
Medicis, are the most magnificent, the last in blue and white 
marble. That of the sumptuous Francis I, is of white 
marble, cunningly sculptured, and in front of it, on a slender 
pedestal, is a white marble urn containing the monarch’s 
heart. In one of the transepts is the broken-at-the-top 
marble pillar, made by order of Mary of Scotland, to the 


At Last. 


156 

memory of her young husband, Francis II, and in the 
other transept is the porphyry pillar in honor of Henri IV, 
the Martyr-King. 

By command of the “ Figlia Dolorosa ,” Louis XVI, and 
Marie Antoinette were exhumed and borne in pomp to the 
old Abbey and laid among their peers, at the restoration 
of the Bourbons. Their mangled remains had been con- 
cealed by a faithful royalist in his orchard-garden, and on 
this hidden grave was built the beautiful Chapelle Expiatoire, 
at the Restoration, which contains fine marble statues of the 
King and Queen, and poor Madame Elizabeth. “ High 
and mighty monarchs,” crowns and thrones! things of the 
past for la Belle France. 

They show you five or six crowns, that of Marie Antoin- 
ette, small and glittering, that of Louis XVI, Charlemagne’s 
crown — not the Iron Crown. What coronation-scenes have 
taken place in these ancient gray walls! At Rheims the 
Sovereigns of France were annointed with the sacred oil, 
and at first crowned there, later they were crowned at the 
Abbey of Saint Denis. 

Driving to Notre Dame, Harry asked what had become 
of the guillotine by which Murie Antoinette was guillotined. 

“ It was at Madame Tussaud’s in London. It is now at 
the Chicago Exposition. They will probably place it in the 
Musee of the Louvre. It is an awful landmark in French 
history, and ought to be in Paris.” 

Notre Dame is much admired by some for its harmony of 
design, though built in so many different times; by others it 
is as severely criticised. The cathedral is of the Transition 


At Last . 


157 


period, between the Roman and the Gothic, but it has been 
shorn of its ancient fine statues of the Kings of France, and 
much other ornamentation. Charlemagne laid the first stone 
of this “symphony in stone,” though, following some of 
the critics, it is a very discordant symphony. The fa£ade, 
decorated with statues of the Virtues, the Vices, Apostles 
and Saints, with its two majestic towers, is an imposing 
object. 

“We must read Ruskin this winter, Harry; he will form 
your judgement and taste, and prepare you to appreciate the 
merits and beauties of architecture. Let us enter.” 

The number and lofty height of the pillars, terminating in 
those pointed arches, produce a striking effect as one enters 
the nave. The choir is paved with many colored marbles, 
in which is wrought the Bourbon Fleur-de-lis, the altar steps 
are of Languedoc marble, and these different marbles, com- 
bined with the white marble altar-piece, a Descent from the 
Cross, and the snowy marble statues in the chancel combine 
to produce great magnificence; but it is a cold beauty, that 
almost sends a shiver through one. The windows are 
stained, the “rose” windows at the extremities of the nave 
and transepts are gorgeous. 

Notre Dame has her memories — they are legion. One 
recalls royal nuptials in that beautiful chancel, full of hope, 
doomed ofttimes to dire woe. The sacristan showed them 
many rich, sacerdotal vestments, some relics, and the Mon- 
strance , sparkling with gems, used by Francis Premier. 
They climbed to the gallery extending around the base of 
the towers, up to one of the towers — only one is visited — 


58 


At Last. 


and with that clear atmosphere, what a superb view of Paris, 
the Seine and her bridges, and the environs. 

“ You know, Harry, Mary Stuart and Frangois II, then 
Dauphin, eldest son of Catharine de Medicis, and brother of 
Charles IX and Henri III, were married in Notre Dame, 
and she in her wondrous beauty must show herself to the 
people, and the youthful bridal pair walked around the 
cathedral on an elevated open gallery, previously constructed 
for the purpose, by order of King Henri II, that the people 
might see their future queen. The beautiful bride was in 
blissful ignorance of Darnley, Both well, and Fotheringay 
Castle then. Old Notre Dame has weathered terrible politi- 
cal tempests, and still she looks undauntedly forth into the 
future, while her towers seem struggling into the blue, as if 
they would penetrate the inscrutable mysteries of the very 
heavens. ’ * 

“ Oh, mater! this is just grand, and to hear you talk is a 
feast! How do you remember everything so ? ” 

They returned past the Abbey Church of Saint Germain 
l’Auxerrois, opposite the Louvre. The interior of the 
church is dark, the pavement much worn, the stained glass 
is esteemed among the richest in Paris. 

‘ ‘ Mater, where is the bell of the old tower ? Is it still 
there?” 

“ No. When the French Revolution burst upon poor 
Louis and his Queen — who were murdered to atone for the 
sins of long centuries — the church-bells were confiscated, 
taken down from the towers, thrown into the crucible and 
re-cast into cannon. It chanced that the company of the 


At Last. 


>59 


Th&itre Fran^ais were playing Charles IX. A bell was 
needed, and Marie Joseph Chenier asked the Convention for 
this bell of Saint Germain TAuxerrois; the request was 
granted, and the bell is still the property of this theatre.” 

“ Come, mater! away to the Market of Flowers! What 
glorious blooms! what colors! How bright the Seine looks 
with her bridges! We are on the Pont-Neuf now, still 
adorned with the fine equestrian statue of Henri le Grand of 
Navarre, the first King of the Bourbon line. What are all 
these boats for here and there, full of women only ? ’ ’ 

“The b lane hiss eases— washerwomen — reign there, and beat 
the linen of Paris on flat smooth stones, and break all the 
buttons, and devour every fabric speedly with eau de Javelle , 
and laugh and make merry, and quarrel sometimes over 
their work. Ecoutez! Paris is all the merrier for them. 
How they laugh! Are they then sc happy? Regardez! 
They are all in blue and sabots,* as are all the peasants.” 

“We are in Paris the Beautiful — Paris the Gay! Prance 
and caper, Don Pedro! laugh thou prince of dogs! Car- 
risima mia, catch the spirit of Paris and be merry.” 

“Beware Harry. They will be taking us for escaped 
lunatics. Now we are at the great irregular Pl&ce de Greve 
on the Seine-bank. It was the scene of bonfires and execu- 
tions and burnings of condemned books, for long centuries, 
and a permanent gibbet and pillory, in the first centuries 
called a justice and an fohelle , were set up in the middle of 
the Place. Thousands of beings on this fatal spot have suf- 
fered their last agonies, in health and strength, somtimes in 
youth. Mais nous avons change tout cela. * ’ 


* Le Sabot is a wooden shoe. Do not sound the t. 


i6o 


At Last. 


Drive for hours in the lovely boulevards, full of Parisien- 
nes, with that indescribable air degagb, no where to be seen 
out of France, through le Boulevard des Italiens, des Cap- 
ucins, under la Porte de St. Martin, little round tables ar- 
ranged outside the cafes, on the trottoir , under shining 
awnings, where gay people — always gay — drink cafe noir or 
cool liquids, absinthe , that deadly poison that is filling la 
belle France with lunatic asylums, eat ices laugh and chat. 
The wine-shops are busy, very busy. 

Sorrow in Paris ? Poverty and sin ? Do not come here 
with your blinkers on, if you desire to see the true inward- 
ness of all this dash and glare — this fanfaronnade. Who 
would ever dream of guillotines, French Revolutions, mur- 
ders of sovereigns, the Pl&ce de Greve, the Bastille, and la 
Pl&ce de la Concorde, and those jets d' eau shining so? 
What events on this spot! La Place de la Concorde, first 
la Pl&ce de Louis Quinze, XV, when this Place, 
and les Champs Elysees were planned, and le Palais Burbon, 
now the' Elys6e-Bourbon, was built. Then la Place de la 
Revolution. As la Place Louis Quinze it was adorned with an 
equestrian statue of that King, le Bienaime, Wellbeloved, 
designed by Love, and was the chef d' oeuvre, master- 
piece, of the great artist Pigalle. 

The people loved to salute this statue in passing, after it 
was unveiled, and recalled their Bienaim6 as he rode forth 
to win the great victory of Fontenoy, and to cover France 
with glory twenty years before. They seemed to see the 
King as he rode through their midst, and turned back to 
smile. Helas! He outlived this love long before the end of 


At Last. 


161 

his reign. Upon the base of this statue Revolutionary rage 
wrote in characters of blood — 

“ Grotesque monument — Infdme piedestal — Les Vertus 
sont a pied , le Vice est a cheval .” — Grotesque monument — 
Infamous pedestal — The Virtues are on foot, Vice is on 
horseback, or Vice rides. The pedestal was ornamented 
with bas reliefs in bronze representing the battles won by 
Louis XV. At each angle of the pedestal were four figures, 
“Virtues,” strength, peace, prudence, justice. In the 
reign of Louis XVI, the statue was surrounded by a white 
marble balustrade. In 1792 this statue of Louis XV, was 
thrown down, and one of “Liberty” was erected on its 
pedestal. 

In 1800 it was decreed that a “ National Column ” should 
occupy the spot, and accordingly the “Liberty” was de- 
throned. When Lucien Buonaparte, Minister of the In-* 
terior, went in great state to lay the first stone, a cedar box, 
containing coins of “ 1754,” and bearing the impress of the 
once Bienaime , had been found in the earth. Such are 
popular favor and gratitude. 

“ Such is the world! ” cried poor Marie Leczinska, nearly 
half a century before; “ is it worth the trouble of living it f ” 

Even the beautiful Madeleine Church, first designed as a 
tombeau — tomb — was converted for a time into the “Temple 
of Mars.” The penitence that had changed it from an in- 
tended mausoleum to a church, had long been forgotten. 

They pass the great church of Sainte Genevieve, the 
Pantheon with its dome in imitation of Saint Peters at Rome, 
and a poor copy, Saint Sulpice with its two great towers, 


162 


At Last. 


Saint Roch with its fine doorway, and its two great organs, 
where so many foreigners go to hear the celebrated music. 
Now a greeting for the Jardin des Plantes, with its flower- 
masses, visit the beautiful Hotel de Cluny, the delight of all 
artists, where one French queen at least held her forty days 
of mourning for the king, clad in white — the royal mourning 
— her apartments hung with black, and the day and sun ex- 
cluded. Beautiful Cluny with its arches and columns, and 
many objects of historic interest. 

Near is the ancient Roman palace with its fine semicircular 
arches — the Baths of Julian — the oldest relic of architecture 
in Paris. What a contrast to the Grecian Bourse with its 
white colonnade, and le Corps Legislatif. Now to the 
Hotel des Invalides with its vast dome. ’Tis there the 
captive of St. Helena sleeps — Le Grand — the Great — one 
calls him. Why? 

They enter a gallery extending around the mortuary 
chapel above, and look down. The Mausolee is of red 
Finland granite, polished almost to transparency, the balus- 
trade above, the pavement beneath, pure white marble. 
The bronze doors lead into the vault. Now they pass la 
Place de la Bastille, on its centre la Colonne de Juillet — the 
Column of July. 

“Free France, chivalric France,” pronounced the doom 
of this terrible fortress-prison, in whose strength the cruel 
Louis le Onze, XI, took such pride. Then to the Place de 
Vendome with the famous brazen Colonne — Column — com- 
posed of melted cannon. Under it the French nation would 
at first bury their returned exile. They placed his bronze 


At Last . 


163 


statue on its summit — then, in blind fury, tore it down again 
— as if the dead were blameworthy for the blunders of suc- 
cessors. 

“We can only walk through the vast double square of the 
Louvre Palais, once adorned with a colonnade of towers — 
that is the old Louvre, which was demolished.* That is the 
arc — arch — of the Pldce du Carrousel , between the Louvre 
and the Tuileries. The long galleries uniting the two 
palaces, were built later. Now, instead of looking out on 
the Tuileries from the Louvre, one looks down the green 
Champs Elys6es. To see the art of the Louvre would de- 
mand a month; but you will have a dim remembrance of 
boulevards of pictures, Harry, and shall see it at leisure 
later. They stuffed the windows with bags of sand to pro- 
tect its priceless art- treasures during the Franco-German 
war. Many costly works of art were buried.’ * 

They visited the beautiful church of the Madeleine one 
morning directly after breakfast. There are no windows, 
the church is lighted from the roof. It is rich in marbles, 
paintings, statues. There were three wedding functions in 
process, one in the beautiful chancel. The bridal-pair par- 
took of the communion, and then swept out into the sunlight 
of life in the daintiest of toilettes, with a troop of friends, 
while the joy-bells rang, and the bridal robe, wreath and 

* It was at the old Louvre that the Prime Minister of Marie de Medicis, Concini, 
was assassinated, and the Queen was imprisoned in it. The picture-galleries con- 
tain the historical paintings of her life as Queen of France, by her painter-friend, 
Rubens, in whose house she afterwards died in Cologne, her heartless and un- 
grateful son, Louis Treize doing nothing for her comfort, and Richelieu, whom 
she had befriended, followed her with undying hatred. Francois I, le Magnifique, 
began the modern Louvre, and, in fact, he was the founder and builder of many 
palace? f 


164 


At Last. 


veil were driven away in a rich carriage. In two side chapels 
a simple pair, the bride not in veil and wreath, were being 
wedded, and they too walked out attended by no troop of 
friends, but they had God’s sunshine, and the joy-bells too, 
if not rung in their honor. God bless their simple lives! 

Then our friends went out into the sunlight, and walked 
around the church in its Greek costume, and admired the 
classic fluted columns, and the snowy marble statues. They 
crossed the shining Place, with the leaping fountains again. 

“People seem very fond of setting up fountains where 
some evil deed was done,” remarked Mrs. Molada, as they 
went on. 

‘ ‘ I suppose they do it because a fountain is always gay 
and beautiful,” said Harry. 

* ‘ Do you see that exquisite fleche-like spire ? That is 
la Sainte Chapelle, with the richest stained glass in Paris. 
It was built by Saint Louis to receive the sacred relics of the 
Crusades. It was part of the old Palais de Justice. This 
vast hall we are entering is the Salle des pas perdus. The 
more ancient Palais de Justice was far more magnificent, 
with statues of all the sovereigns of France. It was de- 
stroyed by fire, and there has been much discussion as to 
the cause of the fire. And now, Harry, we will make our 
pilgrimage to the far-famed old prison, la Conciergerie, which 
stands on the Seine-bank. There it stands with its queer 
pepper-box turrets, and its pinnacles, true type of the 
ancient French chateau. The huge Salle we first enter is 
the reception-hall of the prisoners, and is the scene of that 
famous painting in the Luxembourg, ‘ The Call of the 


At Last. 


165 

Death-roll in the Reign of Terror,’ at your left, entering, 
the wee registry office. The Martyr- Queen’s cell is as she 
left it, a stone floor, a miserable bed, screened with a rideau 
in blue and white check, all that separated the Queen of 
France, the daughter of the great Maria Theresia from the 
* citizen ’ on guard.” 

“I do not know if you enjoy this as I do, mater,” said 
Harry, as they drove to their hotel through streets and 
boulevards. 

‘ ‘ I could drive all day among these crowds of people. 
What a variety! Peasants in blue gowns and sabots, priests 
and monks in their cowls, Sisters of Mercy in their queer, 
coal-scuttle shaped, snowy bonnets ,* the servants in white 
aprons and bonnets — caps — bonnes j* with children or db- 
moiselles^^wA no demoiselle may go out in Paris without 
her attendant bonne. How amusing it all is! ” 

“C'est vrai, Harry. I like it also. One learns much 
about the people, their customs and manners, and national 
dress in this way. And what faces one sees! And every 
nation is different. Compare this public with that of Rome, 
Berlin, London, Edinburgh. It is like a different worl 
each.” 

Now our friends drive through the world-renowned Fau- 
bourg St. Antoine, full of blue and sabots, narrow ruelles 
and courts, dark and foul-smelling, over the PHce du Trone 
a la Barriere, and on to the Court of Peace, la Cimetiere de 
Pere la Chaise. There are many cemeteries of note, where 
one finds great and distinguished names, but no final 


♦ Pronounce like bonnay, the “ t ” is silent, f Nurse and waiting-maid. 


At Last . 


1 66 

• ‘ sleeping-place ’ ’ on this whirling world can boast so many 
illustrious dead as this. 

“Yes, Pere La Chaise was the Jesuit P&re Confessor of 
Louis XIV, and a friend of Maintenon. He planned that 
private marriage function at midnight in Versailles. See, 
many are sitting at the gates weaving wreaths of immor- 
telles for the graves. What a striking grave-yard scene. 
This mausolee-and-chapel-crowned hill contains eighty 
thousand monuments. Pretty children, laden with blooms, 
and sprays of wonderful roses, are bearing them to chapel, 
monument or green graves. The view of domed- to wered- 
spired Paris, Seine and country, is superb. Yonder stretches 
Montmartre — the Martyr’s Mountain — everywhere are the 
beautiful trees. The gaiety of the city is hushed here to an 
unbroken silence.” They seated themselves on the highest 
point, and viewed and discussed the scene. 

“I once ‘assisted’ at the Fete of all the dead here, 
Harry. All Paris visited and decorated her graves, none 
came empty-handed. This is the St. John’s Fete of Pro- 
testantism, the midsummer fete, and is observed with great 
enthusiasm in Germany. The fete here was unsurpassed by 
any I ever saw, only to be compared with the like festa in 
Rome, where, as here, the city repaired to the cemeteries, 
with thousands of priests, clerical students, the Misericordia 
and nuns.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


LE CHATEAU DE RAMBOUILLET, AND 
MALMAISON. 

“ HPO-DAY, Harry, we will spend at Rambouillet, and in 
1 the park I will tell you about my visit to Malmaison, 
when staying in Paris; we will take our lunch-basket, and 
spend much of this sunny day under the grand old trees. ’ * 
“You are just a magnificent Mutter chen — you plan such 
delightful things. How Don Pedro will caper and prance! ” 

* 1 Let us hasten sans dHour to this rich nursery of history, 
and plenty of park, where one can ramble one’s self weary. 
What a queer old chateau it is! Its beautiful wood is one 
of the largest and finest in France, containing 12,000 hec- 
tares — a hectare is two acres.” 

The estate belonged at one time to the ancient Counts of 
Toulouse, whose armorial bearings one sees in the cast-iron 
plates of the fire-flues. It became later a dotation of the 
Crown, frequently a royal residence. 

Francis Premier died here, morose and gouty. Cath- 
arine de Medicis and Charles IX were here during the 
battle of Dreux, an engagement of the civil war. Madame 
de Maintenon and Louis XIV held their court here, and 
Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. Napol 6 on slept here 
before going to Rochefort, and Marie Louise, mother of the 


At Last . 


1 68 

poor little King of Rome, passed her last night in France in 
the old place. Queen Hortense had apartments here. In 
short, the history of the ancient palace reads like a romance. 

The Laiterie de la Reine in the park was built by Marie 
Antoinette; it is a pretty Doric pavilion of two rooms, paved 
in red and white marble; in the inner room Venus entering 
the bath in the midst of a grotto. But Rambouillet has 
another Royalty, and can boast almost unequaled literary 
associations. La grande Marquise, wife of Charles d’An- 
gennes, a Roman lady, and her accomplished and fascinating 
daughter Julie, made the old chateau the home of the Muses. 
This talented and distinguished woman was contemporary 
with Henri Quatre and Louis Treize — XIII. Disgusted with 
the Court, she retired to this lovely park, and here, for 
sixty years, the great minds of France shone in all their 
brilliancy. If you count up all the authors of renown of the 
period I have mentioned, you will agree with me it must 
have been a right royal society. Corneille read his * ‘ Melite, ” 
his first literary production, before this classic circle, pre- 
vious to its representation on the stage. 

Boileau read his satires, and Richelieu made his debut, 
and tried his unfledged wings here, — the heartless, selfish, 
cold, cruel, false Richelieu, the crafty and astute statesman, 
to whom men were but puppets to be played with and 
thrown away as useless toys, when the game was won. His 
powerful intellect, the strong grasp with which he held an 
idea, and brought it to a fait accompoli, found their equal in 
the truly great and unselfish William III. of England, the 
last of his race, the great House of Orange. These two 


At Last . 


169 


men governed from diametrically opposed principles, and for 
a totally different object. One ruled for power, for abso- 
lutism — the other to make men great and free. Mats, re- 
tournons d nos moutons! The inimitable Moli£re drove his 
hearers into convulsions of laughter, and finally set the 
world a laughing over his “ Les Pr6cieuses Ridicules,” in 
which he does not spare the affectations of the Rambouillet 
“set.” Mademoiselle Paulet delighted its circle of beaux 
esprits with her exquisite voice and skill in music. La 
Duchesse de Longueville, sister of the great Cond6, the 
heroine of the Fronde, graced its salons with her splendid 
beauty and faultless grace, as did the brilliant Madame de 
Sevigne — that queen of letter-writers — Manemoiselle Col- 
igny, and many more, whose talents, grace and virtue adorn 
the pages of French history. 

The lovely and amiable friend of Marie Antoinette, the 
Princesse de Lamballe, was a daughter of the House of 
Angennes. These literary memories have left a charm about 
the place that will forever remain for the student of the 
history, literature and art of France, and under the refresh- 
ing shade of its fine old trees, one would fain linger, and re- 
call to fancy those personages who have figured here in the 
tragedy-comedy of the past, and vainly wish for a return of 
its golden age, but hin ist hin , and nowhere is the German 
proverb truer than at Rambouillet. 

“And now Harry, we have seen the chateau, and we will 
just find the nicest spot and enjoy our luncheon. I think 
you might remove the leading-chain from Don Pedro’s 
collar, and let him have a run.” 


At Last. 


170 

“Yes, and then for the story of Malmaison! Come 
hither, thou amber-robed scion of a hundred heroes of 
Mount St. Bernard. Dost see these purple grapes of sun- 
warmth and sunlight ? Eat. Mater, look ! the Don eats 
grapes! Now see him roll on that green sward! Oh, he is 
a beauty! ” 

“A clear blue sky, a delicious breeze, all nature just suited 
to pleasant rambles and quiet reveries in lonely places where 
Beauty finds her favorite retreat. We are walking up 
through the all6e of lindens to the home of Josephine* after 
her divorce, and where she died. In the park she received 
Napoleon when he visited her, and it was there he showed 
her his little son and heir to the Napoleonic throne — built, 
alas, upon a sand-hill. 

“ Have you not often wondered at the rapid workings of 
the mind ? Like a flash of light thought rushes through 
infinite spaces, free and unfettered as an eagle on wing. I 
like to think that Dick is right when he says that in a future 
state we shall possess powers of locomotion like unto these 
mental ones. While we linger under these beautiful lime- 
trees on the cool, soft grass, among lovely blooms, we have, 
in truth, made several long journeys. We have been in 
Martinique, have roamed with Josephine and her first lover 
William, through the wood, and seen them cut their united 
names on the trees. Again we have seen her in the Lux- 
embourg Palais, condemned to the guillotine, her husband 
Beauharnois already its victim, when the death of the terrible 

♦Josephine, for a time after the divorce, had for residence the Elysee — Bourbon 
palace; but she preferred the retirement of Malmaison, which is thirteen miies from 
Paris. 


At Last. 


171 


Robspierre saved her. Now we see her crowned with 
Charlemagne’s iron crown, then her own set upon her fair 
head — Empress of France. Now we see her stand broken- 
hearted in that gorgeous Salle, supported by her Eugene 
and Hortense, — she signs the decrees, and divorces herself 
from all earthly happiness, the splendor mocking her agony. 
And what came of it all ? Oh, selfishness! what a monster 
thou art! Is anything safe within reach of thy grasp ? 

“The chateau of white stone, palest gray, decorated in 
front with statuary, stands, simple and unpretending in the 
midst of a lovely park, soft lawns and many flowers. I am 
not surprised that the Greeks, Romans, Scandinavians, 
peopled their landscapes with so many gods and goddesses, 
nymphs and fauns, Muses and Fates, and all the rest of that 
ilk. One has a fancy in solitary places, especially of historic 
celebrity, that one is surrounded by invisible beings, as if 
the spirits of the long-ago had lingered or returned, and 
hence the sensation as if treading on haunted ground, and 
Realism has been made holy here by a great sorrow. Per- 
haps it is only fancy, perhaps not. Who can tell? But 
we will enter and hold a tete-a-tete with the Lares and 
Penates. 

‘ ‘ The entrance hall is paved with black and white marble, 
the rooms are bright and home-like, not cold grandeur, 
where one’s heart would freeze solid if there were nothing 
else. The furniture and decorations are as Josephine left 
them. 

“ One sees marble busts of the Emperor and Empress and 
Hortense, a fine sitting figure of Napoleon in bronze, with 


At Last. 


ry2 

maps and compasses. The billiard room contains a beau- 
tiful marble statue of the Emperor and Empress. In the 
boudoir are the embroidery frame, the designs nearly fin- 
ished, the needle threaded ready, awaiting the skilled fingers 
never to take it up again, and the easel on which is one of 
Josephine’s water-color sketches of Napoleon entering the 
door. On every hand one finds memorials of a lonely but 
beautiful life. There are many fine paintings, a portrait of 
Josephine unlike all her others, but very interesting, one of 
the little King of Rome, and a statuette of him carved in 
ivory. 

“We found in the salon, the upholstery of which is orange 
trimmed with black, Josephine’s harp, finished with an eagle 
of France; Hortense’s lute lies on a table with music; in a 
window near stands Josephine’s davenport with the much- 
used blotting-paper and the pen. There is also a piano. 
As I stood by these touching reminders, a note of discord 
broke on my reverie like a profanation. 

“A girl came bouncing up, and I heard a loud, coarse 
voice from behind call out: ‘Mary, what do you see?’ 

‘ I don’t see nothin’ but an old piece of blotting-paper and 
a pen.’ ‘Well, come along; I wish we hadn’t come — a 
wastin’ our time! ’ ” 

‘ ‘ Mrs. Raben would call the interruption an amusing 
‘episod!’ ” interrupted Harry. 

“We went up stairs. Josephine’s chambre a coucher is a 
lovely room, from the windows of which, simply hung with 
whitest finest muslin, there are charming views of the park. 
The walls and ceiling, except the central portion, are hung 


At Last . 


173 


with crimson embroidered in gold; the centre-ceiling is con- 
cave, and is a fresco representing the blue sky and stars. 
The Sevres basin and ewer stand in one corner. The couch 
stands on a haut pas y covered with crimson, the hangings 
are of white silk, embroidered in gold, above at the head, 
the Imperial Eagle and two doves. The coverlet is crimson 
and gold, over which is spread a delicate white muslin 
drapery worked in gold bees. In this beautiful chamber 
Josephine died, Napoleon’s portrait in her hand, and a 
prayer for his happiness on her lips, and here the Czar pro- 
nounced a eulogium on her character as high as woman 
could desire. 

“In the adjoining chamber are numerous memorials of 
Napoleon, among them, the little camp-bed on which he 
died at St. Helena, of course Josephine did not have that, 
his white robe de chambre , and exquisite enameled medal- 
lion-portraits of Josephine and Hortense. But have we 
lingered too long ? Then just a last look, a little moment 
in the silent park among the flowers, for this will never be a 
home again, and we will go to the church at the village of 
Rueil, about a mile distant, which contains the tombeaux of 
Josephine and Hortense. 

‘ ‘ The Empress, in Roman draperies, kneels before a prie- 
Dieu , the hands clasped, the head bent. One reads the 
legend, ‘Eugene et Hortense a Josephine,’ and the mono- 
gram ‘J. B.’ Hortense is kneeling, the fallen crown and 
sceptre of Holland, and a rose with broken stem before her, 
behind her an angel with outspread wings. The legend runs 
thus, ‘ Hortense, Reine d’ Hollande, par son fils Napo- 
leon III.’ ” 


174 


At Last. 


“Who was Napoleon II, mater? ” 

“ Le Roi de Rome they count, though he never wore a 
crown. ’ ’ 

“What became of him ? ” 

“ Poor wee laddie with the great title King of Rome! He 
died an exile at Vienna, a pauper on his imperial grand- 
father’s bounty, at the age of twenty-one years, with faint 
memories of his powerful father and a brilliant childhood, 
under the obscure name of Herzog von Reichstadt — Duke 
of the imperial city — and in the Royal Crypt beneath the 
Franziskaner church in Vienna, where over a hundred 
Hapsburgs sleep, in the centre the suberb monument of 
Maria Theresia and her beloved Kaiser Franz, one sees two 
plain oaken coffins side by side, no Denkmal, no name, no 
sign to distinguish them — those of Marie Louise and her 
son, once the little King of Rome! In the Hof burg y Royal 
Palace of Vienna, one sees the famous berceau given by the 
city of Paris to the Emperor and Empress on the birth of 
this prince. Two of the gold bees which adorned it have 
been stolen by travelers. 

“ Hortense and Josephine were avenged, for the third 
Napoleon was the next younger brother of the eldest son of 
Hortense, adopted by Napoleon I, as his heir. There is a 
celebrated tableau of the scene when Josephine hears of the 
death of this child, in Gobelins tapestry, in Sevres porcelain, 
and in oils. These were all in the Tuileries and Saint Cloud. 
These you will see at Compiegne, and they are at Versailles 
and Fontainebleau. I remember once reading in Germany 
a touching poem on Hortense, beginning: 


At Last. 


175 


‘ Soldaten , die ihr habt die Macht 
Atif Frankreich' s grunen Bo den, 

Auf diese Konigin gebt nicht Acht, 

Lasst sie voruber gehen. ’ ” * 

“ Malmaison was the favorite chateau of Napoleon, and 
Josephine brought it to its apogee of beauty. Her pas- 
sion for flowers was insatiable, and her conservatories at 
Malmaison rivalled the finest in England. There the imperial 
pair spent some happy years. After his escape from Elba, 
Napol4on visited Josephine’s grave at Rueil, and spent an 
hour unattended, shut in alone with his remorse and grief in 
her death -chamber. The divorce was pronounced the 15th 
December, 1809, and Josephine expired in the May of 1814. 

“After the fatal battle of Waterloo, Napoleon parted from 
throne and power there, and took his departure, a lonely, 
broken man, to be sent to St. Helena — though he hoped to 
reach America, where his family were to join him — his sole 
possessions, a diamond necklace, given him by the sorrowing, 
pitying Hortense. 

“ Malmaison is a suggestive comment, my Harry, on the 
mournful destiny of the Buonaparte dynasty. During the 
Franco-German war, the Germans used the chateau as 
barracks. It is now fast falling into decay, and is offered 
for sale, and the once charming park, with its Temple of Love, 
is divided up into small building lots to be sold to the first 
comer. All its rich works of art are scattered over the earth. 

* Ye soldiers who posses the power 

On the green soil of France, 

Salute not this Queen who passes, 

Let her go by unnoticed. 


176 


At Last. 


Poor Josephine and Hortense sleep peacefully side by side, 
undisturbed by the world’s false allurements and ambitions. 
They both lived long enough to learn the worthlessness of all 
glittering baubles and dreams of power. I have pictured 
Malmaison to you ch£rie, in its glory, for Napoleon III. made 
it the property of the State. It fell with the Napoleons to 
rise no more.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


LE CHATEAU DE COMPIEGNE. 

“ \ AJ HAT do you say to a day at Compiegne, Harry ? 

V V If you choose to go to the MarchZ aux Fruits — 
fruit-market — and obtain some grapes, and any other fruit 
you fancy, I will put up some sandwiches and gateux, and 
we will go. ’ ’ 

“ I will go tout de suite. We will see the chateau, and 
lunch dans la foret ! — in the forest” 

North by the chemin de fer — iron road — through the 
pleasant country, and the pure air. The god Pan was 
taking his mid-day siesta, and the Nymphs were holding 
Nature in a hushed silence, not to disturb his repose. 

There it is at last, the ancient white palace, looking on 
broad, beautiful lawns, and a fine park. What a sweet 
rural picture of sylvan beauty! Silent enough now; its 
royal days are done. There are many paintings and other 
objects of deep interest here. I may say, the fact is, when 
one has seen one of these royal chateaux, one has, in a 
sense, seen them all. The same arrangement and style of 
ornamentation prevail. Compiegne is very ancient. Since 
the reign of Clotaire I, 558 — who died here — it has been a 
favorite hunting-seat of the Kings of France. One vast 
facade stretches along green banks sloping to the river Oise, 


i 7 8 


At Last. 


across which extends the ancient bridge on which Jeanne d' 
Arc was fighting when taken prisoner by the English. 

On the other side a magnificant terrace, flanked by canals, 
links it to the grand old for£t. Will you walk with us 
through Compiegne ? Long suites of chambers, waxed and 
polished floors, reflecting every object like mirrors. Slippery! 
— I have seen more than one lose footing on this treacherous 
smoothness. Gobelins and other tapestries, long mirrors, 
gilt consoles, Sevres vases, clocks, paintings in Gobelins, 
Sevres and oils, gildings, frescoes, marble carved chimney- 
pieces, huge chandeliers, Louis Quatorze and other clocks, 
— all resting — what is the use of ticking to nobody ? Mar- 
bles in statue and bust, costly cabinets, full of objects 
of virtu, and so on ad infinitum. These are the state 
rooms. The private rooms, which we saw also at Saint 
Cloud, the Tuileries, Fontainebleau, are carpeted, and 
comfortably furnished, without this glare and splendor — 
almost simple and homelike. There are many historic facts 
associated with Compiegne. The King of Spain, Charles 
IV, forced to abdicate by Napoleon I, dwelt here, and it was 
here the young Louis XVI, then fifteen, and his Austrian 
bride of fourteen and a half years, first met. 

It is 1770. A brilliant assemblage of the court of Louis 
XV, fills Compiegne. The King, his three grandsons, the 
Dauphin, the Comte de Provence, his brother, afterwards, 
at the Bourbon Restoration, Louis XVIII — the youngest 
brother, later Charles X, and la haute Noblesse of France 
are there. They await the Austrian Princess. The public 
rejoicings continue six weeks. Twenty millions of francs 


At Last. 


179 


are squandered on the f&tes, ending in that tragic event on 
the Place Louis Quinze, now Place de la Concorde, and the 
people look on and cry for bread. Hapless princess! An 
earthquake ushers in her birth, a Revolution her death. 

Our friends partook of luncheon by the beautiful restored 
ruins of the Chateau de Pierrefonds dans la forH , and Mrs. 
Molada sketched it a second time, and Harry made his first 
sketch from nature, and put Don Pedro in the foreground. 

“ Mater, I like this sort of thing much better than sight- 
seeing in the city. I have quite an idea of Paris already, 
where places are, you know, and all that.” 

“Yes, but to know the art of Paris, and its history, 
would demand a full year, and you would yet have much to 
learn, very much. To-morrow we will visit Fontainebleau, 
and you may cater for the fruit. ’ ’ 

“Good, and I shall procure you some roses. You are 
looking much better Mutterchen. Dost know that ? ’ ’ 

“ It would be a wonder if I did not, with these dear old 
scenes, and your sweet society laddie mine.” 

“And Don Pedro’s. He is never de trop . But, mater, 
you were to tell me about Saint Cloud.” 

SAINT CLOUD. 

“ Beautiful Saint Cloud, in ruins now, once enfolded in 
green undulating hills, velvet lawns and noble avenues de- 
scending to the Seine. On the topmost verge of its em- 
bosoming hills once stood a Roman watch-tower, looking 
towards Lutetia — ancient Paris — now supplanted by the 
Lanterne de Diogene. The terraces are broken down, the 


At Last. 


t So 

cascades are non est , the flower-gardens are things of* the 
past, ingulfed in the destruction of the Revolution; the 
palace escaped then, but was destroyed at the time of the 
Franco-German War.* What a lesson for tyranny, for self- 
ishness! It is in the history of France as in that of the 
Chosen Nation. God is speaking to the people, uttering 
his displeasure with oppression and vice, overturning tyrants, 
rewarding the true — but how slow the nations and sover- 
eigns have been in learning! In recognizing the Fatherhood 
of God, the brotherhood of man! 

“Stately and beautiful Saint Cloud, the renowned palace 
for centuries, the pride of France, in itself a history, graced 
by brilliant courts, resplendent in masterly works of art, 
stands now a desolation. Again in imagination, in the pres- 
ence of this destruction, I linger in its stately throne-room 
and superb chambers, filled with priceless treasures, for it 
was more magnificent than Compiegne. For ages half the 
history of France transpired at Saint Cloud, always a favorite 
and important palace. Here Henri III was murdered, 
Henri le Grand proclaimed King. Here the brother of 
Louis XIV, Philippe, Due d’ Orleans dwelt, and in its gor- 
geous chambers his poor Duchess-wife, Henrietta of Eng- 
land, daughter of Henrietta Maria of France, and Charles I, 
was poisoned and died in great agony. In this palace the 
luckless Duke of Monmouth, son of her brother Charles II, 
visited her. 

“ Napoleon the Great held court here, and Napoleon III, 
the lovely Eugenie with her idolized Louis loved to come, 


* Saint Cloud was destroyed by the Communists. 


At Last. 


1S1 

and here they entertained their royal guests from all parts of 
Europe, who usually had for residence the Palais Elysee 
Bourbon.” 

“ There will be letters for us by this time a la Poste Res- 
tante. You might go and see while I rest a little before 
diner. ’ ’ 

“Three letters for you and two for me, mater!” cried 
Harry breathlessly; “we have time to read them before we 
go down, have we not ? ’ * 

“Here is a very mysterions letter,” said Mrs. Molada, 

‘ ‘ simply desiring permission to enclose me a cheque for two 
thousand dollars on a Paris bank. How singular! Who 
is such a noble friend ? I begin to know that there are 
more great souls than one generally thinks.” 

* ‘ Could it be my Lohengrin ? ’ ’ 

“You forget, Harry, that your incognito friend knows 
nothing about me, and has no idea of your whereabouts.” 

“ Would it be Bishop Taborno, mater ? ” 

“No, ch 6 ri, for different reasons no. For one, he does 
not possess that much money.” 

“ I have a letter from Kilk — Gabrielle. She sends you 
love, and she says that poor little Roma did not sing a note 
for two weeks after we left. They put him out in the con- 
servatory, and brought the two other canaries, before he 
forgot his loss. Poor wee birdie! And here is a letter from 
Gertrude Raben, and she says Baldera is doing wonders in 
her music, and that Mr. Trueman is lecturing on temperance. 
Mater, I am so glad.” 

Mrs. Molada’ s other letters were from Mrs. Underhill and 


182 


At Last. 


Bishop Taborno, both full of bright words of comfort and 
cheer, full of hope for a return to health and to home. 

“We are quite rich now, little mother,” said Harry, pat- 
ting Don Pedro’s beautiful head, while the noble dog looked 
up with dignity into his face, seeming to say ‘ ‘ I know all 
about it. I am glad too.” 

“There is all the money from the ‘ Molada Concert!’ 
and the purse, and my money for the sales of Judge Under- 
hill’s ‘Will,’ for we found our ocean passage paid for, on 
arriving in New York. You can drive now all winter, and 
have a villa — a quiet home and grow strong! You are 
always sure of God, and I am sure too, and I owe it all to 
you Carissima.” 

‘ ‘ The great lesson of life is to become sure of God , 
Harry, and how simple it is when you once have learned 
the ‘ knows .’ And we have proved the word of promise, 
and God recognizes child-like-faith with special gifts.” 

“ But, Carissima, all who have suffered loss and trouble, 
and ill health, have not been so taken care of as we have. 
How is that ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ No. These are insoluble myteries. More are helped 
on their road than the world ever knows. There are more 
great souls than is generally thought. Quant a moi , I am 
an Optimist. The human strata are warming under the 
sun of Divine truth and love.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

LE CHATEAU DE FONTAINEBLEAU. 

“IV/IATER! Mater! I have seen my Lohengrin!” cried 
i V 1 Harry, rushing in in great excitement. ‘ ‘ I was 
just leaving the Marche aux fruits, when I saw a carraige 
driving rapidly past, Lohengrin seated in the inside, Ales- 
sandro on the box beside the cocker . I waved my chapeau , 
crying hello! hello! till the people turned to look, and Don 
Pedro began to bark excitedly, and the crowd of carriages 
and people was so great, I had to give it up. Where can 
he be going ? We shall meet him somewhere. I want you 
to see him. I know you will think him grand as I do.” 

“We shall solve the mystery soon,” said Mrs. Molada, 
laying the fruit in the basket. 

“ Carissima mia, look what a spray of roses! I pin them 
in your dress. There! Why, you look like a Malmison 
rose yourself ! ” . 

This time their way is due south by the iron-road, which 
soon whirls them to the celebrated Fontainebleau. The 
memories of the old palace are legion, and the ancient 
chateau makes a life-size figure in the history of France. 
Everywhere one encounters the crowned F. with the sala- 
mander of the luxurious monarch, and the N. of the great 
Emperor, who made this gorgeous palace his private home. 


184 


At Last . 


Queen Christina of Sweden resided in this palace when in 
France, and one of her acts here commends her character 
little. There are miles of tapestry, and the paintings and 
the frescoes are especially worthy of study, and the marble 
statuary and busts are of great beauty. Add all the splen- 
dors mentioned of Saint Cloud, and to this we may still add, 
for the palace is vast, and the long suites of chambers seem- 
ingly interminable in looking down the vistas. The chairs 
and sophas are gilt. But it is a lonely splendor, and gives 
one the heart-ache. The private apartments of the lovely 
Eugenie are comparatively simple. The walls of the play- 
room of her precious little son are covered with frescoes of 
all manner of animals, and is full of costly toys. 

“Poor little Louis!” said Harry; “I hope they will 
always leave this room as it is. The French nation loved 
their ‘le petit Prince,’ as they always called him, and they 
will keep this room a memorial of him.” 

The great testered beds of velvets, satins, silks, laces, 
look too ghostly to invite repose. The most exquisite room 
in the chateau is Marie Antoinette’s bath-room. All the 
wood is in white and gold enamel, the plafond — ceiling — 
and the walls are mirrors, and above them are Cupids trail- 
ing lovely festoons of roses. What queens have used it 
since, and Josephine and Eug6nie. What a travestie this 
room is on their tragic lives, as if life were only for pleasure, 
and there were nothing to do but drag roses about. 

What a group! Fancy them in this lovely chamber — 
Marie Antoinette, Josephine, Eugenie, and their sorrow, 
their heart-break. One enters the chateau by La Cour des 


At Last. 


185 


Adieux , with the famous horse-shoe escalier — stair-case. 
In this vast Cour Napoleon I. took leave of the Army of 
France and his weeping generals. Then came the return 
from Elba, and the review of the troops before the fatal and 
decisive Waterloo. The divorce took place in this gorgeous 
salle with the heavily-draped table. Poor Empress! On dit 
she never smiled again. And here, Napoleon signed his 
abdication. 

One walks adown the brilliant avenues of art, fancying 
processions of kings and queens, weeping queens sometimes, 
princes and courtiers, bepowdered, bewigged, belaced, be- 
buckled, beknee-breeched, in rustling trains and glittering 
gems, paving the road the French Revolution would travel! 
Hollow laughter, paint, sham ! The prayers in the chapel, 
and the laughter in the theatre, are alike silent. What a 
history! What a lesson! Is the world better for them ? 

Pope Pius VII, whom Napoleon commanded from Rome 
to crown him and Josephine with Charlemagne’s iron crown, 
dwelt here. And he was not permitted to act at the coron- 
ation after all, save to be present — Napoleon crowned him- 
self, he took the crown from no man’s hand! Napoleon was 
the first, after Charlemagne, to be crowned with this crown. 
It was the ancient crown of Lombardy. 

“ Was it of iron, mater ? ” 

“Oh, no; it is a band of gold, with enamelled flowers 
and precious stones, in form like a diadem; in the centre 
of the inner side of the band is a fine line of iron passing 
around it, said to be a true nail of the true cross beaten out 
to that thinness. Tradition asserts that it was given to the 


Gothic or Lombard Queen Theodolinda by Pope Gregory 
the Great; but this is unauthenticated, and the origin of 
this famous crown remains unknown. The Lombard king- 
dom lasted in Italy at first over two hundred years, from 
568 to 774. Then Charlemagne conquered Lombardy in 
774 and seized the Iron Crown. Charlemagne had pre- 
viously married a Gothic princess, whom he afterwards sent 
back to her father, King Desiderius, and this gave rise to 
subsequent hostilities between the Carlovingian and Lom- 
bard kingdoms. After his death it was created a separate 
kingdom in 843, and from 888 to 961, was ruled by its own 
kings again. The Lombards — Longo bardi or Long beards 
— are Teutonic, and are first heard of on the left bank of 
the Elbe. Some authorities maintain that this Gothic and 
warlike race derived its name Lombards, not from their long 
beards, but from parta, or barte, which signifies battle-axe. 
They invaded Italy in 568, led by their King Alboin. 
They were worshippers of Odin. King Authari, grandson 
of Alboin, married the Christian Princess of Bavaria, Theo- 
dolinda. Queen Theodolinda was to the Lombards what 
Bertha was to the Anglo-Saxons, and Clotilda to the Franks. 
She solemnly placed the Lombard nation under the patron- 
age of St. John the Baptist, and built their first Christian 
church, the Cathedral of Monza — re-built in the thirteenth 
and fourteenth century, and the palace near it. She was a 
great woman, and had so won the hearts of the chiefs of the 
kingdom, that when her husband, King Authari died, they 
begged her to choose one of their number as consort, and to 
wear the crown as their queen. Liutprand was the most 


At Last . 


187 

powerful king of the line. The Austrians carried off this 
famous crown, but were forced to return it in 1866, after the 
defeat of Sadowa, or Konigsgratz as it is often called. 

“All those ancient sovereigns of Lombardy from Theodo- 
linda, were crowned with this crown, now so precious to the 
world, and it is justly kept in the Queen’s Basilica at 
Monza, near Milano. 

“ It is exhibited on an altar in a costly casket of gold, 
crystal and gems. This is the most celebrated crown in ex- 
istence, and the most ancient. Napoleon brought it to 
France, but he had to return it to Italy, together with the 
famous bronze horses of San Marco at Venice, and other 
trifles.” 

There are five courts around the chateau of Fontainbleau, 
stone-paved, with gardens of flowers. One of these, La 
Cour de la Fontaine — the name-giving fountain — contains 
the petted, over-fed carp, many of them aged, even to a cen- 
tury or older, and they are a source of amusement to the 
visitors. 

La For&t de Fontainebleau is of vast extent — some sixty 
miles — with fine rock-scenery, and white drives and paths 
winding and interlacing through the green glades. It is a 
delightful place to ride, drive, or walk in. 

“ La Roche qui pleut ” — Weeping rock — “ ne pleut pas , 
ma mere! ” “ It is also called the Sponge Rock, ’ ’ said Mrs. 

Molada, ‘ ‘ for it resembles a huge sponge, and it really does 
drip, except in summer aridity; it is, you see, very porous.” 

The spot where it is situated is one of the loveliest in the 
whole for£t. Here an old man sold fruit and flowers, assisted 


1 88 


At Last . 


by an old woman in blue gown and sabots, and blue kerchief 
on head, whose face was nothing but wrinkles. Two rocks 
much alike in form and size are Les Soeurs — the sisters. 
Two other rocks are Les deux Freres — the two brothers. 

“Here is the oak planted by Queen Marie Th6r£se, the 
wife of Louis XIV.” 

“I must have a leaf for remembrance,” laughed Harry, 
springing to reach a branch. 

The Robbers’ Cave, once the haunt and sleeping-place of 
French banditti, in a dark part of the forest, is distinguished 
by its crest — a cup and a dagger, rudely sculptured on the 
front rock. But the robbers are gone; the gay royal hunt, 
with bay of hound, and bugle-horn, is ended. Silence, 
save the rustling of the foliage, gently kissed by the Zephyrs, 
or the wood-notes of some Jenny Lind of the foret. Even 
Echo seemed asleep. 

In a delicious sylvan spot, the cocker let down the blinkers, 
and hung the bag, that the horses might eat, and our friends 
found a cozy seat, sought out the luxuries of that cornu- 
copia-lunch-basket, and Harry made an assiette — plate — of * 
green leaves and ferns, and spread out a treat for the cocker , 
and they refreshed themselves and chatted, and Don Pedro 
gamboled, and so a new chapter was added to the education 
of my little hero. 

But the sun did not stand still, and the blinkers had to go 
up again, and they returned through the green glades, on 
the white winding roads, to the station, and back with sun- 
set to Paris. What a pity the day is ended. Well so; one 
can not always wander a dreaming in a wood. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


VERSAILLES, SEVRES, LE CHATEAU DE MEU- 
DON, GOBELINS TAPISSERIE, ST. GERMAIN- 
EN-LAYE, MARLY, LE PALAIS-CARD- 
INAL, LATER PALAIS ROYAL, LE 
PALAIS MAZARIN. 

HERE are the ruins of St. Cloud away to the left, on 



1 that rising ground,” said Mrs. Molada, as they 
whirled on to Versailles. “To the left, in the vale below, 
is the village of Sevres, where the celebrated porcelain is 
made, and a little further still to the left, on a gentle hill, 
not visible from us, lies Meudon.” 

They pass, in the Grande Cour, the noble equestrian 
statue of Louis XIV, one of the finest in the world. Ver- 
sailles was one of the great blunders of Louis XIV. It 
might be called the King’s Folly. Perhaps it has been. 
Its extravagant and unrestrained splendors hastened the on- 
coming Reign of Terror. The King was no father of his 
people. His subjects starved, but he was so full of L' Etat, 
c'est moi, I am the State, and self assumed such huge impor- 
tance, that his head was completly turned. Puffed up to 
bursting with the insane idea of the “divine right of kings,” 
he forgot that his people might, possibly, have souls, and an 


i go 


At Last . 


eternal future too. What did he care for the people of 
France ? His intense egoism is astonishing and incredible in 
view of the condition of national affairs. 

The Versailles of its builder, and of Louis XV and of 
Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, has put on a very differ- 
ent dress. One roams through the great Salles where those 
splendid courts moved and glittered; but few vestiges of 
them remain. 

The gorgeous Salle des G laces — Hall of Mirrors — is now 
hung with paintings. It was so called from its seventeen 
great mirrors from ceiling to floor, and opposite each mirror 
is a window of corresponding size, through which the 
beauties of the fine trees and lovely lawns are added to the 
interior magnificence. In this gorgeous Salle they crowned 
the aged Kaiser Wilhelm Emperor of United Germany. 
The celebrated bed-chamber of le Grand Monarque remains 
as the King used it. The couch stands on its haut pas y 
enclosed by the gilt ruelle\ there hangs his portrait, the 
Louis Quatorze clock is silent, there are costly ornaments 
and articles he used. The antichambre , le Salon de V Oeil 
de Boeuf- — the Ox-eye salon, from a window of that shape 
high up in the wall — leads to the bed-chamber of the Queen, 
afterwards that of Marie Antoinette, in which nothing re- 
mains in situ , save the great iron hook in the ceiling, that 
held the bed-hangings. One recalls that terrible night when 
the infuriated mob burst in, and thrust their spears into the 
couch, the Queen having escaped through the Salon de 
V Oeil de Boeuf , to the King’s chamber. Poor Queen! 
Happier would it have been for her, had she been slain then. 


At Last. 


191 

And one stands in that balcony and fancies that awful mob 
of women in the Cour de Marbre, marched all the way from 
Paris in that unfriendly weather, coming up that way to the 
entrance, demanding the Queen. Brave Queen! She puts 
back King and children, and poor timid Madame de France, 
and stands forward alone. She can die, she will die. Only 
King and little Dauphin shall be safe. And those Furies 
are moved, they cry “Vive la Reine /” but ’tis only pro- 
longing the torture. Poor lonely Queen! helpless to quell 
the storm. Memories. Intangible dreams. Queens re- 
turn here no more. 

Now one walks through miles of tableaux — pictures, by the 
great artists of France. Famous, grand battle-pieces of 
huge dimensions, historical paintings, royal portraits of 
great interest, portraits of all the Marechaux — marshals — of 
France, of all the Constables — constables — of France, many 
of them princes, some of them princes of the blood royal, 
portraits of men of letters, of great poets, of great writers. 
And statuary of exquisite beauty, marbles of Valois and 
Bourbons, Napoleons, Josephine, Hortense, Eugenie, Prince 
Louis. 

One finds at the end of a vast Salle, near the King, 
Charles le Victorieux , the lovely statue of Jeanne d’Arc in 
armor, but with uncovered head. And the varied colors of 
the sumptuous frescoes of the ceilings, are reflected on these 
objects, and on the highly polished floors. And these 
frescoes are an edifying study, for kings, queens, princes 
and princessess figure up there among the Olympian deities. 
What arrogant assumption! Louis Bourbon will not sit on 


192 


At Last. 


the throne of France only. The Bourbons enthrone them- 
selves among the gods like the old Pagan Emperors of 
Rome. It pleased them, and affords us a laugh at their 
folly. Well, what would you have ? Should not Royalty 
have royal faults ? 

One finds the beautiful chapel as of yore. Oh, the hy- 
pocrisy that has been practised at those early matins! The 
courtier must hear mass with the King, he must not dare 
smile anywhere unless the Majeste sees fit to be gay. It 
taught the hollow-hearted one good lesson at least. They 
were compelled to act humility, and deny self at court at any 
rate. In the theatre they were more natural, truer. 

You need weeks to study the art of Versailles. It is not 
only the marvel of France, but of Europe, and it is an ex- 
cellent place to discover how little one knows. The park of 
Versailles is of vast extent, beautiful with noble trees, de- 
licious bosquets — thickets — and the loveliest lawns, winding 
walks radiating in all directions. The view of the whole 
from the palace, is very beautiful. The fountains are on a 
grand scale, and when they all play at the same time, the 
world has nothing to equal the wonderful scene. They are 
all seldom permitted to play now, the expense being too 
great. 

Queen Marie Antoinette loved the two small palaces, le 
Grand Trianon and le Petit Trianon, in the park, which re- 
tain their furniture and decorations as she left them, and a 
fine portrait of her still hangs there. There the Queen and 
her favorite friend, the lovely Princesse de Lamballe, tried 
to escape the dreaded and hated etiquette of Versailles. 


At Last. 


193 


There is also a pretty Laiterie de la Reine , embosomed in 
flowers and trees, where la Majest6 attired as a bergere — 
shepherdess — drank milk, and played with her precious 
little Dauphin, that poor wee prince who said “I know a 
Queen who weeps every day. ’ ’ Beautiful Queen ! Precious 
Dauphin, thy mother’s pride and joy! Ye both deserved 
a happier end. 

A visit to the royal manufactory of Sevres porcelain will 
afford much delight. No one is admitted, either here or at 
the Gobelins manufactory of historical tapestry, without a 
special permission from the Goverment. It has been feared 
an attempt might be made to purloin the art. The treasures 
to be seen here at Sevres are beyond compare with any other 
china made, and they are of great value, a cup and saucer 
being worth four or five guineas. How lovely the designs, 
how brilliant and pure the colors! There are wonderful 
vases from one foot to six feet in height. 

The pictures in Sevres are exquisite. Many of the cele- 
brated paintings have been copied in Sevres for the royal 
palaces. Napoleon III and Eugenie presented their portraits 
in Sevres to our Queen and the Prince Consort, and they 
are magnificent productions, and of immense value. The 
reason of this is the difficulty of executing a large piece 
without a flaw, and if it crack, the work is, of course, 
valueless. These portraits are at Windsor Castle. It is a 
pleasant walk from Sevres to le Chateau de Meudon, seated 
on a rising ground in its' park. Meudon is noted for its 
terrace with a flight of steps at each end, and its lovely 
flower-garden below. Its interior is much the same as that 


194 


At Last. 


of the other royal palaces, but it is only of medium size. 

The work at the Gobelins manufactory, particulary the 
copies of paintings, is charming. The marvel is how fine 
and perfect the gradations of shading and color are, and 
however this effect is secured. Many great paintings have 
been copied in Gobelins tapisserie for Royalty. They are 
so finely and wondrously wrought, that it is only by a care- 
ful and close inspection, that the observer can discover that 
they are Gobelins. It is as wonderful as the art of Mosaic. 
These pictures are to be seen in all the royal palaces of 
which mention has been made. It is most interesting to see 
them at work. Two persons work at the same time, at the 
same piece, one on each side, but nothing of the design can 
be seen during the work. They seem to work in a mean- 
ingless patch anywhere; it looked mysterious enough, but 
the result is a marvel of combination and loveliness. 

The famous Palais Royal,* rendered so celebrated during 
the great Revolution, as the abode of the false and fickle 
Egalite, is living on its memories. Its Rez de Ckaussee — 
ground floor — of the Cour, is devoted to jewel-shops. The 
peculiarity of it is, that on one side of the Cour, all the 
gems are genuine, on the other, they>are all false! Glancing 
in the windows at these precious stones, they all seem the 
same. I am not sure that you could distinguished them. 
Are you a “ connaisseur ” ? If not, do not stake your head 
on it. These shops are not a bad emblem of Egalite, who 
helped the Royal Family to their awful doom; he made sham 

* The Palais Royal was destroyed by the Communists during the Franco-Ger- 
man War. 


At Last . 


195 


seem genuine. Anything on earth to save his own precious 
neck, and he has gained the scorn of history. 

The Palais Cardinal — Palais Royal, has an interesting 
history. In the old days, when the “old” Louvre stood 
walled, turreted, with moat, draw-bridge and sallyport, bas- 
tion and tower, before the days of quays and stone bridges over 
the winding Seine, there stood near it an ancient strongly for- 
tified feudal castle in the open country outside the city walls. 

In the days of the Mad King, Charles VI, 1380, husband 
of Isabeau de Baviere, this castle belonged to Bernard Comte 
d’Armagnac, Constable of France, the ally of the English 
against his own sovereign. In this grim castle frequently 
met the English and the Burgundians, to meditate Some new 
coup de main upon Paris. As time passed it grew gray 
with years, and the turbulent nobles found a sure but more 
modest retreat under the soil. At length Cardinal Richelieu 
bought and destroyed this and other castles that had sprung 
up around it, and built the vast and sumptuous Palais Card- 
inal. The main buildings extended around an immense 
Cour or square, planted with trees and adorned with 
fountains and statues, where the jewel-shops are above re- 
ferred to. From this vast central Cour, four other smaller 
ones opened out towards each point of the compass. Over 
the grand entrance, in the Rue Saint Honors, one saw, 
carved in marble, the Richelieu arms, surmounted by a 
Cardinal’s hat, and the name — Palais Cardinal. Vast, varied 
and beautiful gardens and terraces extended far at the rear. 
It contained a splendid chapel, and, to maintain its equili- 
brium, two theatres, one of which contained three thousand 


196 


At Last. 


people; it was painted on panels by Philippe de Champagne. 
There were luxurious ball-rooms, boudoir^ of unheard-of- 
before-splendor, vast suites of chambers, marvels of taste 
and elegance, hung with tapestries, gold-embroidered bro- 
cades and Genoa velvets; long galleries filled with the gems 
of art, rare paintings, marbles, rare plate of silver and gold, 
costly and precious manuscripts illuminated by Monkish art 
and skill. In this palace the “terrible” Cardinal received 
Louis XIII in his last hours, and died, bequeathing his 
palace and its treasures to the King, and since then it has 
borne the name Palais Royal. The mausoleum of Richelieu 
is in the Sorbonne which he re-established, and where he 
willed to be buried. 

Three successive reigns had been followed by a long 
Minority and a Regency; that of Henri IV, with the Re- 
gency of the Queen-Mother, Marie de Medicis, assisted by 
Richelieu, who became the great Minister of Louis XIII; 
then the Regency of Anne of Austria and her powerful 
Minister Mazarin, and the long Minority of Louis XV, 
during which Philippe, Due d’ Orleans, nephew of Louis 
XIV, was Regent, and held his private re-unions and petits- 
soupers in this Palais Royal, aided by his three daughters. 
Anne of Austria frequently found a residence in the palace 
with her beautiful boy Louis XIV, and rambled often through 
that fine allee of old chestnuts. No. The Palais Mazarin 
is now the Bibliotheque Nationale. 

This vast and magnificent palace was the proof of the 
enormous wealth of the great Minister. He was an artistic 
egotist, who all his life had ‘ ‘ fed on the choicest grapes from 


At Last. 


197 


his neighbor’s vine, and sipped the most fragrant honey from 
flowers not his own.” The vast number of rarest works of 
art collected by him, were purchased with money not his 
own, or were bribes. It was the finest collection in Europe. 
The famous Holy Family of the Louvre, a work beyond 
price, was in his collection. Raflaello was his “religion.” 
In his own words — “ Credo in Raflello! What animal ” 

The gem of his collection, a Nativity by Raflaello, was a 
bribe from the King of Spain. Gazing on this lovely work, 
hear him exclaim — “That exquisite Virgin! and the Child 
nestling in her arms! I wonder who sat for that Virgin! I 
salute her di cuore /” — the person who sat! I suppose he 
meant. His galleries contained works by Titian, Paolo Ver- 
onese, Caracci, Tintoretto, in fact all the old and great 
masters. 

Mazarin reched the Zenith of power only to die. It was 
a hard wrench for him to leave his pictures and marbles, for 
he loved his collection with all the ardor of his passionate 
Italian nature. He was a dissembler and a hypocrite, but a 
great minister. Not blood-thirsty and cruel, like Richelieu, 
yet equally unscrupulous full of cunning-intrigue. When 
the court physician, Guenaud, tells him there is no hope, he 
must die, — “nothing can save” him, he has himself painted 
red and white, dressed in his sacerdotal robes, and wheeled 
in his gilt sedan chair along the terraces of his beautiful gar- 
dens, in full view of the passing crowd, and causes the re- 
port to be spread that he is convalescent! And he faints in 
his chair, and is carried to his couch from which he never 
again rises. Anne of Austria with her court, visits him in 
his last hours. 


igS 


At Last. 


LE CHATEAU DE SAINT GERMAIN. 

They were sitting on the fine terrace of the ancient palace, 
enjoying the distant prospect of Paris, spires, domes, towers, 
Seine, bridges. 

“ See,” said Mrs. Molada, “ this is what I did while you, 
with your guide, visited the Park of Versailles, and the two 
Trianon palaces, and I sat and rested in the Salle des Glaces 
by permission.” 

Read, Carissima. I am all ears.” 

“ I was thinking of life-changes and swiftly approaching 
death, and the memories of the palace, suggested the im- 
perfect lines.” 

AUTUMN REVERIES. 

Autumn leaves are falling, 

Beautiful through fading, 

Autumn winds are moaning 
For the year that’s dying, 

Summer birds are soaring, 

With their merry singing, 

On swift wings untiring 
To the sunny Southland. 

Those clouds onward gliding, 

In form ever changing, 

Now with sun-rays shining, 

In bright waves reflecting, 

Then dark as the gloaming, 

Like sad shadows floating, 

Full of mystic meaning, 

Seem but emblems fitting 
Qf earth-joys departing. 


At Last. 


199 


And I ask with sighing, 

Why this sudden flitting ? 

Is fair Beauty drooping ? — 

Our cold world deserting ? 

While I roam the woodland, 

Or on the sea-shore stand, 
Voices whisper sadly, 
Sometimes almost gaily, 

Borne on zephys by me, 

From the streamlets rippling, 

Or the sea’s deep booming, 
From the summer — gladness, 
From the springtime brightness, 

“We are fleeing away, 

We are merry and gay, 

We dance in the dew-drop, 

O! We laugh in the spray, 

We sigh for the weary, 

We seek out the lonely, 

We blush in the bride’s cheek, 
We run with the little feet, 
Sweetest fragrance we bring, 
Gladden birds while they sing, 
But, alas! we must say, 

We shall all pass away.” 

The quiet, leaf-strewn lawn, 
Once bright at eve and dawn, 
The drooping flower-stalks, 

The lonely country walks, 
Purple and golden woods, 

In their sad, solemn moods, 
Seem ever to tell me 
In thrilling melody, 


200 


At Last. 


“ Passing away, passing away, 

Is the fate of everything here, 

The flower blooms but to decay, 

And sinks to its cold snowy bier, 

The song of the bird is soon hushed. 

The music of woodland soon gone, 

Oft our joys are laid low in the dust, 

In all their bright glory and bloom; 

The land where death cometh never, 

Where brightness shall never grow dim, 

Where is known no fading nor sorrow, 

Is the home of bright seraphim.” 

‘ Did you think of poor broken-hearted Marie Antoinette, 
mater, when you wrote those thoughts ? She and her little 
Dauphin often walked on this lovely terrace, and sat here to 
see the view as we are doing now. * ’ 

“Yes, Harry, I was thinking of the faded leaves of 
earthly greatness and of human hopes. Shall we see the 
interrior now ? And then we will return here and lunch. 
What a comfort our basket has been to us! ” 

Saint Germain-en-Laye has played a prominent part in 
French royal days. There were two chateaux, one built by 
Frangois I, in the period of the Renaissance, another by 
Henri Quatre, le Grand. The chateau of Henri IV and the 
gardens are vanished, only the terraces remain. It has a 
royal foret of ten thousand acres. The old palace is crystal- 
lized in memories. Its famous terrace runs above the Seine, 
is two miles and a half in length, constructed by Le Notre 
in 1672. 

Saint Germain was the favorite residence of the kings of 


At Last. 


201 


France until Louis XIV built .Versailles. Here were born 
many of the sovereigns and “children of France,” Henri 
II, Charles IX, Louis XIII, Louis XIV, Princess Madeleine 
of France, afterwards Queen of Scotland, whose first act on 
arriving in her husband’s kingdom, was to kneel and kiss 
the soil! She only reigned a few months. 

Louis XIII died here. James II, the stubborn Stuart of 
England, held his gloomy court here from 1689 to his death 
in 1701. Then it became barracks, next a military prison, 
until, finally, Napoleon III made it a museum for Gallo- 
Romano Antiquities. Peace was signed here between 
Charles IX and the Huguenots in 1570. The peace also be- 
tween F ranee and Brandenburg was signed here in 1 676. The 
fact is interesting that the first railroad from Paris ran to 
Saint Germain in 1837. 

The chateau is seated on the crest of a hill, backed by its 
glorious forest, once animated by the royal hunt, when 
Queen and ladies of the Court, in green or blue ornamented 
with gold, with hat and sweeping plumes, rode gaily to the 
hunt, where oft was seen the royal Stuart, Queen of Scot- 
land, the lovely Dauphine-Reine, Mary Stuart, and her 
young Dauphin- Roi, Francois II, who died so soon. The 
sunshine still plays upon the great southern facade, and 
lights up the beautiful allies of old elms in the park. The 
stately terrace still borders la for&t, and extends for two 
miles along the edge of the heights on which the chateau 
stands, the Seine flowing far beneath. On the verge of 
the horizon, facing this terrace, the towers of Saint Denis 
rise distinctly into view, and all Paris lies at the feet of the 
beholder, a fascinating picture. 


202 


At Last. 


When Louis XIV was four .years and a half old, his father 
died at Saint Germain, and during the King’s last illness the 
state christening of the royal child took place here. 

When asked his name, the wee laddie replied “I am 
Louis XIV.” 

“ Not yet, my son, not yet,” murmured the dying King, 

‘ ‘ but shortly, if so it please God. ’ ’ 

Anne of Austria, Regent during the Minority of her son, 
loved Saint Germain — in summer — and here, as at the Palais 
Royal, the Louvre or Fontainebleau, was assembled her 
brilliant court. Then, as now, the moon-lit-terrace and the 
forest-glades of this sylvan loveliness and silence, charmed 
the rambler. 

About the Court is the young Italian, former secretary to 
Cardinal Richelieu, a Roman, unobtrusive but accomplished, 
a linguist and a conoscente in music, a collector already of 
art, Giulio Mazarin. He has resided in Spain. The 
Queen-Mother converses with him in her mother- tongue, he 
grows in the Regent’s favor, and, in the end, rises to a 
height of grandeur and power beyond that of his former 
patron and master. He becomes the guardian of the royal 
child, and the great Minister, absolute master of France. 

MARLY. 

From Saint Germain-en-Laye, a lane on the heights over 
Paris, sometimes embowered by hedges, sometimes skirted 
by vineyards, leads to the famous and favorite Marly some 
two miles distant. Le Notre is again the artist for Louis 


At Last . 


203 


XIV, le Dieudonne , God- given, and millions were squan- 
dered on Marly. Full-grown forest trees were brought 
from Compiegne. There were twelve clustered pavilions, 
linked together by arches and colonnades, vast gardens, a 
park, costly water-works, fountains playing into marble 
basins, carp-ponds and lakes. The on-sweeping Revolution 
left not a stone nor a flower, fountain or carp-pond. The 
wild-wood-bird rules now where Queen Maintenon swayed 
her royal sceptre, none so powerful as she, for she ruled le 
Grand Monarque himself. She came into power the year 
of the Dragonnades. Her private royai marriage has not 
been strictly speaking proven, though there were three 
reputed witnesses, the Archbishop of Paris, Harlay de 
Champvallon, Louvois and Montchevreuil. Saint Simon 
pays her a great compliment. He says: “ La Scarron , 
devenue * reine, eut cela de bon qii elle aima presque tons 
ses vieux amis dans tons les temps de sa vie” 

Louis, becoming disgusted with Saint Germain, because, it 
is said, he could see Saint Denis from there, dying of ennui, 
built Versailles, and laid out its wonderful grounds, under 
Le Notre, wasting millions, his subjects meanwhile starving. 
Now that folie of the world is finished, and ennui like an 
Olympus, crushes him down. Marly is created, and thither 
he rushes to escape himself, dragging the unhappy royal 
family, ill or well, to pay those hated visits at Marly. Poor 
things! How we pity them all! How sickening the 
picture. Had Louis but learned the lofty sentiments of his 
ancestor, Louis VI, le Gros, 1108, how different the history 


* Scarron, become queen, possessed that good quality that she loved almost all 
her old friends in all the conditions of her life. 


204 


At Last. 


of France! That king said to his son: ‘ ‘ Souvenez — vous que 
la royaute riest qu' ne charge publique dont vous rendrez uen 
compte rigoureux apres votre mort. ’ ’ * 

Behold the sovereign of a great people squandering 
millions on worse than nothing, passing his time feeding the 
fat carp of the Marly carp-ponds, making Maintenon shiver 
in chilly mornings to stand by his side, or with royal star on 
breast and plumed hat, receiving the homage of blue blood 
who alone may visit Marly. The Revolution respected 
neither blue blood, fauteuil nor tabouret , it swept it and them 
out of France. 

Madame de Maintenon loved Marly. She had super- 
intended its building, seated in her gilt sedan chair, the 
King, uncovered, standing at her side. Here she could 
have the King to herself, free from officious and meddling 
courtiers. And when this luxurious ‘Louis died, and 
his great-grandson Louis XV, the people hissed and hooted 
the dead on the way to the Abbey of rest. What a price 
to pay for sinful pleasures! For self they won the hatred 
and curses of a great people! 

* Remember that royalty is only a public responsibility for which you will render 
a rigorous account after death. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


IN TOURAINE. 

CHOISY MADEMOISELLE, CHOISY LE ROI, 
LE CHATEAU DE BLOIS, LE 
CHATEAU DE CHAMBORD. 

LE CHATEAU DE BLOIS. 

“TF we leave Paris the Gay, my Harry, we turn our faces 

1 toward “/<? Jar din de France ,” the Garden of France, 
famous for its winding Loire, its fine old royal chateaux, and 
its delicious scenery and atmosphere. Our route lies over 
the old city of Orleans, with a cathedral, city of the inspired 
Pucelle d’ Orleans, Jeanne d’ Arc, of whom the Princesse 
Marie d’ Orleans sculptured that beautiful statue that we 
saw in Versailles, but we pass on to Blois, and spend a day.” 

They pass the station for Choisy le Roi at a distance of 
some eight miles from Paris. Of this enchanting Chateau, 
which once looked down on velvet lawns bordering the 
Seine, and extensive flower-gardens, the Revolution has left 
nothing save a fragment of wall. Choisy Mademoiselle, 
afterwards named Choisy le Roi, by Louis XV was built by 
Mademoiselle de Montpensier, “ La Grande Mademoiselle,” 
granddaughter of Henri Quatre, and daughter of Gaston, 
Due d’ Orleans. She was the heroine of the Fronde, and 


20 6 


At Last. 


did not hesitate to point the guns of the Bastille against her 
royal cousin the King; she well nigh led an army into the 
field of battle. Mademoiselle had one idea firmly seated in 
her brain, that the world was made expressly for her, not an 
uncommon fancy of the old Royalty and haute noblesse of 
France. Some of them were rudely awakened from their 
illusions. 

Mademoiselle built Choisy to escape the gloomy splendors 
of the Palais Luxembourg which she had inherited. La 
Notre was her artist, who knew how to lay out grounds, 
and to spend money. They have three remarkable objects 
to visit in quaint old Blois, the Chateau, the rich and ancient 
church of Saint Nicholas, and Chambord. Besides these 
are the picturesque winding streets and ruelles , lanes, 
flights of steps leading up and down, and now and then 
lovely flower-gardens surprise one in the most unexpected 
places. Blois is perhaps the most historical of these royal 
palaces in Touraine; but it is, like all the rest of them, 
dead; dead in the sense that Royalty is dead in France, and 
kings and queens will dwell in them no more for all time. 
Blois belongs to the nation now. We shall read its history 
in that of France. One roams over its lawns, through its 
cloisters and frescoed chambers, while the ghostly process- 
ions pass by, from Louis XII, d’ Orleans, down to Napoleon 
and Josephine, Marie Louise and the wee King of Rome, 
Napol6on III and the stately and beautiful Eugenie with 
Prince Louis, “the little Prince,” for they all came here. 
Fran5ois I, “ le Magnifique,” sweeps on in satin and lace 
with his proud guests. 


At Last. 


207 


Marie de Medicis, widow of Henri Quatre — IV, was im- 
prisoned in Blois after her imprisonment in the ‘ ‘ old ’ * 
Louvre, subsequent to the assassination of her Italian 
Minister Concini. She died at Cologne in the Rubens- 
house. 

The hapless Joan of France spent much of her sad life 
here after her divorce from King Louis d’ Orleans, — XII. 

One wonders why anyone should be unhappy in such a 
beautiful retirement, but the human heart and soul are too 
great to find sweet contentment without true love , which is 
only sure in God. The rooms and oratory of Catharine de 
Medicis are horribly near those Oubliettes , and she died here 
overwhelmed with abject terror. 

Les Oubliettes! The Forgottens! What a history that 
would be! The history of Oubliettes! Who originated the 
diabolical thought? I wonder if anybody knows. Con- 
struct an oubliette — a trap-door. A man or woman becomes 
obnoxious to the ruling power. Catch that individual, let 
him walk over the Bridge of Sighs at Venice, or any other 
place, the oubliette sinks, he sinks, goes through into the 
Adriatic Sea, or somewhere else. They keep one in order in 
the Bridge of Sighs yet, just to show one how it worked. 

In those “good old days,” the victim of suspicious 
tyranny stepped on the trap, the spring opened, the trap fell 
downwards! He is forgotten. No one ever knows where 
he went. Kings used les Oubliettes, Queens, Doges of 
Venice. Objects of beauty greet the eye on every side, 
highly polished floors, lovely and delicate tints of ceilings 
and walls, or the elegance of the architecture. 


208 


At Last. 


Stand in the red cloisters of Louis XII, Louis d’ Orleans, 
the sole King of this house, and view that beautiful fa£ade 
on the right, adorned profusely with the crowned F. and the 
salamander of its royal builder, and the fine open stair-case- 
tower, standing lightly forward, the crowning loveliness of 
the Renaissance, perhaps unrivaled in Europe. The name 
of its architect is, unhappily, unknown. 

The chateau stands high above the city, and one views 
the narrow streets winding, climbing, descending, and con- 
necting flights of steps. It is one of the most fascinating of 
pictures, and there are many curious old houses, with those 
queer high roofs, and women and children are moving about 
in blue, busy and happy, ready to give you a reverence — 
courtesy — a smile and a hearty ‘ ‘ bon jour Madame! ’ ’ 

LE CHATEAU DE CHAMBORD. 

Some three leagues from the Loire, on the banks of the 
Cosson, rises one of the most beautiful and picturesque 
castles in the world. It is an immense feudal manor, flanked 
by four enormous towers, each sixty feet in diameter. Its 
architecture is Moorish and Gothic united with most exquisite 
elegance. 

Where- is the historian, the man of culture, the artist 
especially, who could contemplate this gorgeous dream of 
the richest fancy without emotion ? Chambord was origi- 
nally the property of the Counts of Blois. At the end of 
the fourteenth century, it came into the possession of the 
Orl6ans family. A century later Louis of Orleans became 
King of France as Louis XII, and Chambord became the 


At Last. 


209 


property of the crown. Its splendor dates from Francis 
I, who might be called the father of its modern magnificence, 
its Renaissance. 

In the time of Louis XIV, two of Moliere’s plays were 
given there for the first time, Monsieur de Pourceaugnac, 
and Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, now world-famous, and 
among the choicest French classics. The delightful chapel 
is still called the chapel of the Queen of Poland, having been 
built by the old exiled King Stanislaus when a resident there. 

One visits Chambord from Blois. The drive is through a 
bright country, dotted over with vineyards, woodlands, and 
white stone villages, animated everywhere with those inevit- 
able blue figures busily at work. One enters the park, and 
all becomes silent as a vault. There was once a noble for£t, 
rich in game, but the Princesse de Wagram cut it all down 
half a century ago, and the woods are dumpy and dismal. 
The drive through this wood is without one single hint of a 
turn or a curve, wearisome enough. At last you emerge, 
and before you rises a marvel in the Renaissance, inex- 
pressibly lonely and desolate, a huge mass of towers, turrets, 
pinnacles, gray roofs, high ornamented windows, astonishing 
chimney-pots and vanes — this mass of bewildering fancies 
and idealism, fretted, sculptured, the crowned F. and the 
Salamander showered over it as thick almost as the bees on 
the vast Palazzo Barberini at Rome. 

La devise , device, of Francis I, was a Salamander with 
the legend — “ Nutrio et exstinguo ,” “Nudrisco il buono e 
spengo il reo! ” — I nourish the good and extinguish the bad. 
Francis le Magnifique made it superb with every art of 


210 


At Last. 


decoration, and entertained his royal guests there, among 
them the Emperor Charles Quint, in the sumptuous Salles , 
and the royal hunt made la foret de Sologne ring, and Roy- 
alty laughed its laugh and was gay. Aye di mi! Tempora 
Mutantur! And Francis I. spent much of the last years 
of his life here, and Louis XIV loved this Versailles of 
Touraine, and frequently held court here. 

The palace or chateau of Chambord is of gigantic dimen- 
sions. There are thirteen great staircases, and four hundred 
and fifty chambers. The chief is the great double-spiral 
staircase in the middle of the palace, ending in a lofty lan- 
tern, the most elevated point of the building. The pictures 
at Chambord are very interesting. There are many por- 
traits of Bourbons, and other royal lines. There is a fine 
portrait by Vanloo, of Queen Marie Leczinska, daughter of 
poor old King Stanislaus of Poland, who once dwelt here, 
a smiling countenance, animated with beautiful brown eyes. 

What a sarcasm of fate it seems, that the daughter of the 
man who put this Queen’s father off his throne, and sat 
there in his place, should have become her belle fille , daugh- 
ter-in-law, and Dauphine, Dauphiness, of France, after the 
death of the Infanta of Spain, her predecessor, the first wife 
of the Dauphin. This Polish Princess was the mother of 
Louis XVI. She and her husband never succeeded to the 
throne. They did a wiser thing — they died. A portrait of 
Maintenon strikes one as a face full of power. She would 
have taken her place among the few great Queens of the 
world as a ruler. 

After the brilliant victory of Fontenoy in May 1745, Louis 


At Last . 


211 


XV, presented Chambord, for his life, to the famous, noble 
and brave Mar6chal de Saxe, Prince Moritz or Maurice von 
Sachsen, son of Augustus the Strong of Saxony and King 
of Poland, and the beautiful Aurora von Konigsmark. 
German by birth, he had become French in sympathy and 
by the law of naturalization, and was a faithful servant of 
Louis XV. This great victory was due to his military 
powers. 

The desolate Chambord is a distinguished mile-stone in 
the long descent of royal lines, and their ofttimes tragic 
history. How different the lights in which men regard 
them now, with their lives and the hidden intricacies of their 
motives of action unveiled by the hand of impartial history. 

“Mater! Mater! Are you up? Do you hear the morn- 
ing-bells — the Ave Maria? Surely les cloches , bells, are 
having a fete ! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Oui , out, mon fils, I shall be ready in one little minute. 
Are you quite ready? ” 

“ Oui, ma miette , yes my crumb, and breakfast is ready.” 

Mrs. Molada descended and found Harry waiting in the 
jardin. The d6jeuner-table, decked with the most exquis- 
ite flowers, was laid in a lovely arbor half smothered in 
honeysuckle and jasmine, and fine tempting strawberries lay 
half hidden in green dewy leaves. 

“ Good morning! carissima. How well you are looking! 
So rested. These drives, and this wonderful air, are work- 
ing a magical effect. Dr. Kurewell was right. You feel 
better? ” 

And he produced a spray of conservatory roses, fastened 


2 12 


At Last. 


it in her gown, and led her to her seat. It was ever a 
study and a delight to see these two together. Harry rang 
the little silver bell with the air of a prince entertaining a 
queen. 

“You are my guest this morning, carissima, and I have 
ordered breakfast just as I know you like it. Do listen to 
the cloches /” 

And they breakfasted, these two, and the g argon attended 
them as only a French g argon can, and brought them 
devilled chicken, hot and hot, and they chatted, and the 
mother’s heart was comforted in her loneliness, a loneliness 
none could fathom, not even her gallant laddie. 

Then they went to the beautiful church of St. Nicholas, 
and roamed through its shadowy nave and aisles, and 
through the old streets, through deep shadows and golden 
sunlight, stumbling on the sweetest flowers in the oddest 
nooks, and up a staircase, or down, admiring the quaint old 
houses, and how pretty it was to see the children make that 
graceful French reverence and say “bon jour Madame! 
bon jour Monsieur! ’ ’ sometimes offering the lovely flowers 
with a shy smile, and many a pat fell to Don Pedro’s share. 

And then it was time for their train, and they went on to 
Tours la Belle , on the Loire, spanned there by its three 
bridges, a wooden, a stone and an iron bridge, where they 
proposed making their headquarters in Touraine. 

“What a beautiful city, mater!’’ cried Harry, as they 
came in full view, “lying in that deep valley, with the 
silver, serpentining Loire, and those enclosing vine- clad 
uplands.’’ 


At Last. 


213 


“ Yes, it is a charming place, and like a home-coming to 
me, for I and my dear father once spent six months here 
with friends in their maison de campagne , country house. 
And dost thou know what I have in this satchel? ” 

‘ ‘ Oh, carissima ! ‘ Quentin Durward ! ’ How good of 
you to remember it.” 

“ We will read it a little on our drives, and consult it 
here and there. You know much of the locale of the tale 
is in Tours.” 

The cathedral of Tours is one of the finest and oldest in 
France, and forms the most prominent feature of the city, 
from whatever point you may look down upon it. The 
present cathedral, which is the successor of one much more 
ancient, was commenced in 1170. It is in the form of a 
Latin cross, with two massive towers, and is of gray stone. 

The facade is richly carved in a marvelous lacework of gar- 
lands, crowns, pinnacles, foliage, flowers. It was while 
looking at this fagade with its magnificent towers, that 
Henri Quatre exclaimed: “ Ventre saint grist Voila deux 
bijoux! II rity manque plus que des etuis! ’ ’ 

The harmony and grandeur of the interior, the majesty of 
the nave and choir, the grace and lightness of the pillars 
and lofty arches, the numerous decorated chapels, there are 
fifteen, and the soft lights falling from the two immense 
rose windows at the extremities of the transepts, all awake a 
deep and solemn impression, particularly when the organ- 
harmonies ring and echo through the vast temple, and light 
up the soaring arches as only music can. The effect of 
music in one of these cathedrals is indescribable, the mystery 


At Last. 


214 

of the tones blending with the mysticism of the Gothic 
architecture, as if both united to give expression to that 
deep yearning of the soul after the hidden infinity so deeply 
rooted in man’s being; it always suggests to me that “great 
voice like the sound of many waters.” 

There is a white marble tombeau in the nave to the two 
little sons of Louis XII, the effigy of the Dauphin bearing 
a crown. 

“Oh, mater, let us come here often! ” said Harry, as they 
listened to the organ; “ if I could speak to the organist and 
try the organ, do you think I might? ” 

“ I fancy so, we will see. We are not hurried in our stay 
in Tours. We need only to go southward when it becomes 
too cold to stay here, and these drives are so restful and 
invigorating. There are several royal palaces to visit in 
Touraine, all within pleasant driving distance, so that we 
can visit one in a day. I will write a note and ask the 
organist to call.” 

LE CHATEAU D’AMBOISE. 

The chateau is twenty-seven kilometres — a kilometre is 
three fourths of an English mile — from Tours, the old 
palace of Chenonceaux is thirty-two. 

One pays for a carriage and pair, with the cocher, who 
boards himself and his horses, but, of course, always receives 
a pour boire for himself, only four dollars for the entire day. 
They started for Amboise in the early morning and returned 
with a gorgeous sunsetting. On the outskirts of Tours they 
passed near the gray convent of Marmoutier, one of the 


At Last . 


215 


oldest and richest in France. The nuns have a lovely 
chapel, and a beautiful flower-garden. 

‘ ‘ Mater, what are those doors in the gray rock-hills 
bordering the vale ? ” 

‘ ‘ They are the entrances to the caves de vin — wine-cellars 
— which frequently extend far into the hill, and are ice-cold.” 

All through the fields men and women in blue, sometimes 
a red kerchief, are tending the vines, driving well-laden 
carts, weeding and mowing, and once a wee gar^on offered 
Mrs. Molada a nosegay, and Harry gives him a silver piece, 
to his great surprise and delight. But they reach the town 
of Amboise at length, drive through the white, narrow 
streets, over the Place with trees, up a steep slope with long 
grass' and flaming poppies, under the great grayish white 
walls, overgrown with green, and a profusion of wild flowers, 
through a tunnel-like opening in the rock, with ancient 
gateways, and enter the vast Cour of the chateau, which is 
seated on a royal plateau high above the town and the Loire. 

The view is superb, one of the most fascinating earth has 
to offer, over the mighty Loire crossed by its many bridges, 
losing itself in the distance as it sweeps on into the Bay of 
Biscay, into the sunset, watering the fertile plain. Directly 
below the chateau, the Loire widens into a lake, divided by 
an island, and here two bridges span the stream. On one 
side of the Cour you have that vast structure, glittering in 
the sun, all that is left of the ancient fortress-palace, on the 
other the beautiful Chapelle de Saint Hubert, the scene of 
ro^al christenings and nuptials in by-gone days, with a high 
delicate spire and the most wonderful carving, a perfect gem 


2l6 


At Last. 


of architecture, one of the most exquisite chapels in Europe. 

It was a votive chapel built by Ann of Bretagne. The vast 
chateau, long suites of chambers, are perfectly bare, abso- 
lutely not a single article to be seen. The long sculptured 
balconies are there still, overhanging the river, strong and 
massive. The associations of the Chateau d’Amboise are 
numberless. What tragedies, what comedies, what assassin- 
ations and weary incarcerations in dim dungeons, whose 
history haunts the spot. 

The beloved King, Charles VIII was born and died here, 
and one still passes under the low stone doorway, where he 
bent his head to pass under more than four centuries ago 

For the origin of the chateau we go back to the times of the 
Romans in Gaul. Julius Caesar founded it. Here Alaric met 
his conqueror Clovis I. Louis le Onze — XI — , dwelt in the 
fortress at times, to the grief of its captives. Louis XII, 
le Pere du Peuple , Father of the people, came here to visit 
the royal widow of Charles VIII, and, in fact, Amboise was 
a favorite with all the ancient royalty of France. Francois 
I. and his gifted mother, Madame Louise de Savoie, Duchesse 
d’Angoul&ne, Regent of France, and his brilliant sister 
Marguerite, “Pearl of Valois,” found this a favorite home, 
and this trinity of love , as they called themselves, roamed in 
its wonderful terrace-gardens, where the ‘ ‘ Heptameron ’ ’ was 
first meditated. 

In la Tour des Minimes is a winding carriage-drive, built 
by Frangois I. for the visit of Cnarles Quint, through which 
one walks now to the top of the plateau to enter the palace, 
and when the Emperor Charles Quint visited Francois I. 


At Last. 


217 


this tower-ascent was decorated with arras, flags, and illumi- 
nated, and as the two sovereigns were driven up together, 
these combustibles caught fire, to the great dismay of the 
Emperor and his suite, who at first suspected the King of 
treachery. 

The celebrated Arab Chief Abd-el-Kader suffered a long 
captivity here, and one sees his table-tomb in a neglected 
corner of the plateau. This lofty platform, lifted high above 
the landscape, is strongly suggestive of Julius Caesar’s idea 
of strength, and its gardens are still a marvel of beauty. 
Masses of roses, and many lovely flowers, greet the eye. 
There are broad terraces rising one above the other, to which 
one ascends by stone steps, each terrace bordered by lime trees 
whose thick foliage interlaces in arches of living green above, 
making the loveliest, coolest arcades. And ever from these 
bewitching bowers one looks away into that imposing view. 

Of all the kings and queens and royal children, and 
haughty guests, who once rambled here, none was more 
truly great and royal than the ‘ ‘ old Master ’ ’ Leonardo Da 
Vinci, whose pensive bust adorns this sylvan Elysium. He 
was the guest of Frangois I, died in the King’s arms at 
Fontainebleau, and finds his last sleeping-place in the church 
of St. Florentin in the town of Amboise. 

“ Miitterchen mine, I never dreamed of such a wonderful 
spot. Up on this topmost terrace let us lunch and face the 
view. See this camp-stool, you wondered what I wanted to 
bring it for! I will open my fruit-basket, you have the cold 
tea, and all the other luxuries in yours; but first I must run 
down with a treat for cocher Gilbert, who has no doubt 
saucisse et fromage. ’ ’ 


2 18 


At Last. 


“ It is more than twelve years Harry, since I was here 
with your grandfather, and from this very spot I sketched 
the scene.” 

“Now we have another good hour, Miitterchen, and 
while you rest, I will read a chapter in ‘ Quentin Durward.’ ” 

PLESSIS-LES-TOURS. 

They visited it fresh from the perusel of this celebrated 
romance, where Louis le Onze, the first to bear the title of 
ires- Chrttien — most Christian King, and the first Majesty of 
France — was wont to roam about, his hat stuck round with 
those little images, and the romance has thrown a charm 
over the district, but they found nothing of which the poet 
sings: 

“Full in the midst a mighty pile arose, 

Where iron-grated gates their strength oppose 
To each invading step, — and strong and steep 
The battled walls arose, the fosse sank deep.” 

Plessis-les- Tours is in ruins, and of the park with its gins 
and snares, not a tree stands. The donjon tower still exists, 
and the room in which the cruel King died. But the King, 
with his faults, knew the difficult art of governing men, and 
of subdueing haughtiness and presumption. 

The “Hall of Roland,” methinks, reads much more 
fascinating than we should have found the original, with its 
squeaky doors. In one part of the ruins is the celebrated 
Cage-de-fer — iron cage — in which the Cardinal la Balue, 
the inventor, was shut up by Louis XI, eleven years. 
Within it one can not assume any natural position; standing 


At Last. 


219 


is quite out of the question; to lie down, one must coil 
oneself like a serpent, if that is thinkable, to sit, one must 
stoop! The marvel is how a man could exist there eleven 
years. 

The house of Olivier le Daim, from the stag he wore in 
his arms, le Diable by the people, le Mauvais, the Bad, his 
true name, le barbier, promoted to be Prime Minister of 
France, is near the ruins. The house of Tristan l’Hermite, 
the King’s executioner, is in the city, a queer old dark* gray 
stone house, with a rope carved above the door and win- 
dows. Louis was wont to summon this functionary by 
means of a flag from the donjon tower, and Tristan knew 
from the color of this signal what his work would be. Red 
was instant death. In this gloomy fortress, filled with 
nameless terrors, the unfortunate Princesse Joan de France, 
spent much of her life before her marriage with the Prince, 
the King’s heir, afterward Louis XII. Become King, he 
divorced her and married the widow of Charles VIII, Ann 
de Bretagne, nevertheless, it was not permitted him to 
found a royal line, and he died sole monarch of the Branche 
d’ Orleans. 

The famous Jeanne d’Albret, “la petite madame, le mig- 
non des rots,” child of the Queen of Navarre, was partly 
educated here, and hither came her talented mother, 
authoress of the “ Heptameron.” 

LE CHATEAU DE CHENONCEAUX. 

Its exterior is enchanting and perfectly unique, white and 
gray, shining among the flowers, with its lovely windows, 


2 20 


At Last. 


its many turrets and chimney-pots finished with gilded 
vanes. You come face to face with it as a hidden palace of 
fairies, of witches, of enchanters. It is built in the oddest 
fashion, on the river Cher, it is the only bridge over the 
Cher, and the river flows under it, and around it, and 
ripples about its feet peacefully, dotted with greenest isles 
now and again, and majestic trees grow on the farther bank. 
It was once a mill, and the Norman owner of the mill built 
a beautiful house, and the son was a spendthrift, and so the 
sumptuous Frangois I, got possession of it, and made a 
hunting-seat of it. 

Henri II, gave it to Diane de Poitiers, la Duchesse de 
Valentinois, and she had wonderful taste, and built that 
beautiful bridge which unites the great pavilion with the 
other bank of the Cher. You go down that lovely allee, 
enter the cour d honneur , between those two guarding, 
mysterious sphinxes, silent as the surrounding scene, and 
you exclaim, as Harry did, “Verily I have seen nothing 
like this! ” and for once you will be perfectly true! 

Then Catharine de Medicis appears between those 
sphinxes, and covets the beautiful chateau, and sends 
Diane up higher, to Chaumont, and takes possession of her 
home, and astrologizes with Ruggieri, and her portrait, a 
false and cruel face, hangs here yet. Later, Queen Louise 
de Vaudemont, widow of Henri III, brother of Charles IX, 
it will be remembered, spent her period of mourning in this 
enchanted silence, for her murdered husband. He, holding 
the States General at Blois, with the aid of la Reine Mere, 
caused the assassination of the two brothers de Guise, 


At Last. 


221 


le Due and le Cardinal, and in retribution Henri III, was 
stabbed at Saint Cloud by the Dominican Jacques Clement. 
And then, later, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Voltaire and that 
ilk were entertained here by the Dupins. Chenonceaux is 
now owned by a lady of wealth, Madame P61ouze, and the 
chambers are magnifique in the style of Francis Premier, 
and Louis Treize, XIII. 

Mrs. Molada sent in her carte de visite , and asked per- 
mission to inspect the historical chateau, and this was not 
only courteously granted, but Madame herself, being chez 
elle , came and invited them to dejeuner ci la fourchette — - 
luncheon. This was gladly accepted, and resulted in a 
charming conversation, and an inspection of much they had 
otherwise not seen. How pleasant it was to stand on that 
beautiful terrace, looking at a spot so full of mystery, no 
sound but the soft rippling and gentle splash of the Cher 
against those great piers, nearly five hundred years old, 
listening to the rustling of the tall trees, and walking in that 
great, grand, still, old garden, filled with roses, and what 
roses! and countless other blooms, breathing out the most 
subtle and the sweetest perfumes, and listen to the amiable 
Chatelaine as she chatted of many things new and old. 

And then she plucked with her own hands and loaded them 
with flowers, and then they took leave, and walked leisurely 
back to their carriage in the village, through the avenue and 
the memories of centuries. It seemed a dream of Orient- 
alism. 

May thy lovely Cher ever flow 

Around thy terrace and piers Chenonceaux, 


222 


At Last. 


’Midst thy flowers and sunlight gleam, 

Rippling the music of a fairy dream. 

LE CHATEAU DE CHAUMONT. 

Chaumont is a perfect contrast to Chenonceaux. In the 
latter we have the restored splendors of royal reigns, in 
Chaumont we have the old itself, and no make believes, and 
it is more than four centuries older than Chenonceaux. As 
a house, this is luxurious and a very charm, as a situation, 
Chaumont is truly imperial. It stands high above the 
Loire, and looks out on fifty miles of landscape varied and 
beautiful. The drive to it is a romance. Arrived at the 
long suspension bridge — de bois — wood — over the Loire, 
defendu a trotter stares them in the face, and the horses 
walk over the bridge, taking ten minutes to it, keeping time 
with the slowly-winding river, poplars and willows adorning 
the banks and the wayside. 

At length the bridge is crossed, the cocher cries “ hi! ” 
the horses quicken their pace, and, to the left, at a distance, 
Chaumont smiles down upon them from among the trees. 

Then they wind on up through the straggling village, 
past quaint, old houses, those busy blue figures animating 
every turn, then they turn into the avenue of the park, the 
brilliant, generous flowers flaming on all sides, and then 
there are the silent, round, ancient gray towers of the old 
palace! What a place for pure, scented air! They linger 
long on the beautiful terrace, so high above the Loire, with 
its grass slopes, and roses, and pretty overgrown lodge, 
before they inspect the interior. One of the round towers 


At Last. 


223 


was occupied by the famed astrologer Ruggieri, and the 
cabalistic signs of the Queen Catharine de Medicis are still 
to be seen almost everywhere. The floors are of glazed 
tiles, the chambers hung with Beauvais tapisserie, and they 
look ancient and rugged, rusty and faded, worn and dismal, 
no bright bits of color, but the majestic situation, and the 
broad prospect, atone for this gloominess. 

Catharine’s bed, the bed-hangings of stripes of olive green 
velvet and silk embroidered, her prie-Dieu, her livre 
d' hcures, her candlestick — the last three sorely needed, and 
ineffectually used by her — and numerous other relics of her 
are here as she left them. Here Catharine forced Diane to 
dwell, while she herself descended to her Chenonceaux. 

The portrait of Diane hangs in her own chamber, a beau- 
tiful and smiling face. After wandering through the ghostly 
rooms where the history of over eight hundred years has 
left her echoing footsteps, they returned to the terrace and 
lunched, and enjoyed the picture before and far below them. 

“ Well, mater,” said Harry, “we have seen the five great 
chateaux of Touraine, and they are all, in their own way, 
fascinating, but I would prefer le Chateau d’Amboise to all 
the others.” 

“ On the whole, so would I, ch6ri, though this situation 
is superb. I will take you to see three other chateaux not 
in Touraine, but near, which are equally interesting, and 
have played a prominent role in royal days.” 

“ How delightful! Loches is one, I know — the others ? ” 

“ Chinon and Azay le Rideau.” 

Mrs. Molada had written a note to Monsieur l’Organiste 


224 


At Last. 


of the Cathedral of Tours, asking him to call, and saying 
she wished her son to play a few times before him on his 
great organ. 

He proved an enthusiast in music, and Harry’s rendering 
of Chopin nearly took his breath away. Running his fingers 
through his long hair, he cried: 

“ Mats , Monsieur , vous etes dejcL Maitre , vousf C’est 
merveilleuse. Oil avez vous appris votre musique ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ De ma mere Monsieur. ’ ’ The organist saluted Madame 
ofoundly. 

“ Vous chantez, sons doute , Madame f ” 
u Mais oui, Monsieur , un peu. ’ ’ And they all sang to- 
gether, and were amis. 

Then they went to the cathedral and Harry played, but 
found his legs rather short to reach the pedals, and after 
that, every day he hastened to the genial and firery organist, 
and played, and Mrs. Molada listened in the nave below, 
but sometimes she was over-persuaded, and mounted to the 
organ, and they would sing some grand old air of Mendels- 
sohn or Pallastrina. 

LE CHATEAU DE LOCHES. 

Loches! Many a heart has quaked at the sound of the 
name, for, as Sir Walter Scott says, it was a prison, or rather 
a fortress-palace, more dreadful even than Plessis-les-Tours. 
The doings behind those walls were not all put down in 
history in those days of absolute power. The chateau is 
puilt upon a steep rock on the river Indre, amid lovely 
landscapes, and presents an imposing view of towers and 


At Last. 


225 


battlements, and a magnificent terrace. It was built by- 
Charles VII, le Victorieux, victorious through a simple 
shepherd-girl, who raised the famous siege of Orleans, by 
the English, and crowned the King at Rheims. Here one 
sees the tombeau of Agnes Sorel,* whose quaint old house 
one sees in Blois, whose memory is still beloved by the poor; 
the memorial is in the chapel of the Sorel tower, which leads 
to the terrace of the chateau; it is an altar- tomb, with a re- 
cumbent effigy of Agnes, and two angels at the head, two 
lambs at the feet. 

The Subterranean portions are vast and terrible; there 
were many cells where the life-giving sunlight never pene- 
trated, where to be was equivalent to being buried alive; 
but one can ramble and meditate at leisure now, for the days 
of Feudal tyranny and oppression are ended forever, and 
Habeas Corpus is King now. Thank God! In this lovely 
and richly-endowed France, Libertas has spoken in clarion 
tones, and her torch burns brightly, her gifted sons and her 
fair dames are free. 

Mrs. Molada and Harry lunched on the glorious terrace, 
and interesting and engrossing was their excursion into the 
history of France during the power of Loches, and Fancy 
pictured to them the roar and din of battle, and the cries of 
the combatants. How vain, how foolish, seemed the strife 
and the struggles for power, victor and vanquished alike 
buried in the past, and the scene of their deadly hand-to- 
hand combat in ruins. But, fascinating as this spot is, 


* The great German poet Schiller, makes AgnSs Sorel’s play an interesting r61e 
in his celebrated “ Jungfrau von Orleans " — Maid of Orleans. 


226 


At Last. 


Apollo’s golden chariot- wheels rolled on, and they were 
warned to bid adieu to the lonely fortress and its lordly seat. 

LE CHATEAU D’AZAY LE RIDEAU. 

It lies about half-way between Tours and Chinon, % so that 
these two palaces may be visited on the same day. What 
a drive that was! Beautiful Azay is built upon piles on an 
island in the river Indre. It was built by Francis I, v/ho 
built so many of these delicious quiet palaces, and combines 
three different orders of architecture, forming one of the 
most interesting types of the Renaissance in France. There 
it stands amid lovely greens, on the gently-flowing Indre, 
and beautiful by many flotvers, always flowers. One sees 
upon the pediment of the fa£ade the royal monogram of 
Fran£ois I. and the “good ” Queen Claude. What an en- 
viable retreat for a brilliant court! Perhaps the “good” 
Reine Claude, with her children, found heartsease here — 
who knows? Poor Princess! Dead at twenty-five! And 
the crown and the kingdom were hers but for the Salic law. 
Daughter of Louis XII and Ann of Bretagne, her father, 
after the death of the two little princes, buried in Tours 
Cathedral, married her to Fran£ois I, whom he named his 
successor. Princess Claude had been betrothed to Charles 
Quint his rival. One feels the heart-ache when one recalls 
the sad fate of this young Queen. And the Indre flows on 
and its ripples seem to say: 

“ Men may come, and men may go, 

But I flow on forever. ’ ’ 

Then in another strain, dreaming over its memories: 


At Last 


227 


I sang, alas! to a youthful Queen, 

But her answer was only a moan, 

I sang my best through the living green, 

In the gayest and merriest tone. 

The crown of France shone bright on her brow, 

The royal sceptre was in her hand, 

“ Oh, give me river, I ask thee now, 

Fora green restful grave on thy strand.” 

But thou, I said, art a sovereign Queen, 

The royal throne and the crown are thine , 

Be in truth, Princess, a ruling Queen, 

Of thy kingly father’s royal line. 

Then her mournful face looked down in mine, 

And she shook her head in mild amaze, 

“ Oh Francis! ” she said, “ My heart is thine, 

And I fain would have tarried to gaze. 

But oh, she fled! I saw her no more! 

I had only laughed to make her glad; 

I laugh no more as I did of yore — 

I am dreaming aye of that face so sad. 

LE CHATEAU DE CHINON. 

Chinon lies directly south of Tours, on the Vienne, while 
the renowned palaces of Touraine lie to the east of that 
city. It is as steep a climb to Rock Chinon as to Ehren- 
breitstein am Rhein, or to the Konigstein in the Saxon 
Switzerland. Crumbling walls, ivy-grown towers, dried up 
moats, open draw-bridge and portcullis greet the stranger. 
The moats are planted with fine trees, and the broad walks 


228 


At Last. 


and flowers of the plateau are beautifully kept. It is a 
romantic and fascinating spot, and whispering voices echo 
down the centuries of the long ago. Fair and happy faces 
of queens and princesses, stately kings and brave Crusaders 
seem to gaze out from the ruins, and one thinks to hear the 
harp of the Troupadour and the voices of children. It is 
haunted with many a scene. Artist, antiquarian, student, 
you will find satisfaction here. Norman and Burgundian 
architecture of the eleventh century delight still. From 
this imperial Rock one looks out on an Eden of green 
meadows and streams, vineyards, poplars, acacias, vales, 
towns, villages, church-towers, a land of sunshine and of 
song. 

The great poet Schiller has adorned Chinon with his 
brilliant imagination. He has laid several of his scenes in 
Die Jungfrau von Orleans — The Maid of Orl6ans — in this 
ancient chateau, among them that scene in which Charles 
VII. receives Johanna, and Dunois, pretending to be the 
King, opens the interview with the query: 

u B is t Du es, wunderbares M'adchen ? ” 

l 

Charles le Victorieux proved himself but a king of clay, a 
poor thing at best, who, after the heroic achievements of this 
extraordinary shepherdess, whom no one pretends to under- 
stand, made not the slightest effort to rescue Jeanne d’ Arc 
from her cruel fate. 

“I would have yielded crown and kingdom to save that 
dear girl! ” cried Harry. “ What a craven-coward-spirit he 
must have had.” 

“Yes, it was his brave generals who brought the war to 


At Last. 


229 


a successful end. Charles the VII, had anything but a 
heroic end. His son, le Dauphin, afterwards Louis le Onze, 
disturbed the tranquility of his reign by frequent rebellions, 
and Charles, persuaded that the Dauphin would poison him, 
starved himself to death.” 

In the Argenton tower is the subterranean passage which 
led to the house of Agnes Sorel, whom Schiller makes a 
noble character in the drama. The ruins present an imposing 
appearance. As at Amboise, there was once a Roman 
fortress here, and Chinon is, very likely, after Amboise, the 
oldest chateau of these valleys; but the time of its founding, 
or by whom, is only a matter of conjecture. Its history 
and associations render this Windsor of France one of the 
most interesting places in Europe. Saint Louis held his 
court here away back in the times of the Crusades, and, 
indeed, all the French monarchs from the reign of Philippe 
Auguste down to Henri Quatre, were, with the Royal 
Family, more or less in this ancient palace. Henry II, of 
England, of the Plantagenet line, son of Matilda, the 
daughter of the Norman Henry I., and Henry Plantagenet, 
Count of Anjou, died at Chinon in 1189. He had assisted 
Philippe Auguste to quell the rebellions of his uncles by 
mediation. 

In the Glaciere Tower was the prison of Jacques Molay, 
Grand Master of the Knights Templars. One almost fancies 
to hear the departing footsteps of those who came and went, 
or the ring of gay laughter, and the pattering of the little 
feet, that wearied themselves with play. But the play is 
done, the curtain has fallen, the sun has set to rise no more, 


230 


At Last. 


the brilliantly-lighted stage of life’s tragedy here is empty of 
the actors, who, weary of the play, have deserted, and all 
we have left is what we call a noble, a royal ruin, in which 
it was very pleasant to ramble and sketch, and paint memory 
pictures. 

Through these historical tours, and a suitable accompina- 
ment of reading, our friends were ever gaining a clearer in- 
sight into French history, and learning, through the history 
of the French nation, still better God’s design, concerning 
the human race, in his dealings with different nations. Truth 
and knowledge are like an artichoke. * One must eat each 
leaf by leaf. The eye could not bear all the light at once, 
nor the thought grasp all truth, nor attain to all knowledge 
with a single effort. Mind grows, power increases, step by 
step. 

* The French artichoke grows round, and consists of layers of thick green 
leaves overlapping each other. It is boiled, and the leaves are drawn out one by 
one, and the white portion is eaten after being dipped in white sauce. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


SOUTHWARD. 


AtJCH IN ARCADIEN. 


“Far explore the mountain hollow, 
High in air the clouds then follow! 
To each brook and vale the Muse 
Thousand times her call renews.’ ’ 


HE weeks at Tours had passed swiftly, and regretfully 



i our friends marked the approach of colder weather. 
A gray day of rain aroused that slumbering cough, and they 
made immediate preparations for their journey southward. 

The cathedral cloches were counting noon in sweetest 
chimes on their last day, when Harry came in from his 
practice on the cathedral organ in great glee with a hand- 
somely bound volume of Mozart’s Masses, a gift from his 
new friend the organist. 

“ Have you forgotten, ch6ri? We lunch at the Vicarage 
to-day, and you have to dress, you must hasten; the carriage 
will come for us in a few moments.” 

“ I will be ready in one little minute, mater.” 

‘ ‘ I have, what I hope will be acceptable to you, my dear 
Mrs. Molada,” said Mr. Sommerville as they sat at luncheon. 
“ My elder, and only brother, Sir Hubert Sommerville, of 


232 


At Last. 


Sommerley Abby, has a villa at Cannes, and they have 
arrived there to winter. I wrote him of your proposal to 
spend the winter in some part of the Riviera, and why, and 
here is a letter from him and Lady Mabel, in her own right, 
for my belle soeur is an Earl’s daughter, who ‘stooped to 
marry a Baronet,’ she laughingly says, containing an urgent 
and cordial invitation to you and Harry to spend a few weeks 
at ‘ Villa Raffaello,’ until you visit chief points, and are in a 
position to choose your place of abode. Here is the letter, 
which I hand over to you. If you accept, I will telegraph, 
since you leave to-morrow. They meet you at the station 
you see, and Lady Mabel is a living, walking sunbeam. She 
will give you un piatto di buona cera — a dish of welcome — 
she is simpatica .” 

“I can assure you of the truth of my husband’s state- 
ment, and I do hope you will accept, Mrs. Molada.” 

‘ ‘ Do mater, ’ ’ cried Harry, forgetting all ceremony in his 
pleasure. 

“You are all too kind and good; I shall gladly accept 
this charming invitation. It will be delightful to possess two 
such friends.’’ 

“On our drive, then, I will send my telegram, and the 
day you will arrive. Will you travel direct through ? ” 

“ No. I thought of stopping off at Lyons, and at Avig- 
non, reaching Cannes on Saturday.’’ 

“Oh! Then there will be time to write also. In any 
event I will telegraph.” 

Lyons! What a city of noise and rush and bustle! They 
manufacture silk in quantities, but the populaire don’t seem 


At Last. 


233 


to wear any. Lyons scrambling up the hill-sides that sur- 
round it, its high houses pitching their roofs steeple-high. 
Here the noble rivers, the Rhone and the Saone spanned by 
numerous bridges, celebrate their nuptials, and as one, the 
lordly Rhone hastens to bury his waters in the Great Sea, 
the Gulf of Lyons. 

They visited the cathedral and inspected its curious clock, 
which, to be truthful, was disappointing. There are some 
Roman ruins, interesting for that reason, arches, pillars, 
columns. La Place des Terraux , on the banks of the 
Saone, has melancholy associations. On the scaffold there, 
the two conspirators, De Thou and Cinq- Mars, Monsieur le 
Grand after he had become the favorite of Louis XIII. 
perished. 

This history is a melancholy proof of the revengeful spirit 
of Richelieu. Much of character is betrayed by the voice, 
and it is said that when Richelieu was aroused, his ‘ ‘ voice 
sounded like the wind whistling through a cavern.” Was 
that the hiss of hatred and revenge ? These two, associated 
with others, had made a treaty with Spain, with the know- 
ledge and consent of the King, and Gaston, le Due d’ Or- 
igans, the King’s brother, who both left the Marquis 
Cinq- Mars and his friends to perish, so soon as the Cardinal- 
Minister had discovered the plot, and its object, his own 
downfall. 

Richelieu is at Valence, is dying, but he will go to Lyons, 
the seat of the Criminal Court, if he should die on the road. 
He commands a room to be constructed, gilt-painted, hung 
with crimson damask, containing a bed, a table, a chair, and 


234 


At Last 


in this he is borne on the heads of twenty of his body-guard 
the land-journey, then by boat. 

Cinq-Mars is sentenced to suffer torture “ordinary and 
extraordinary” before decapitation, and, deserted of all, the 
favorite, poor youth not yet twenty-two, wonders where all 
his Court-friends are! and his King, who plotted with him so 
affectionately, confidingly! Then Richelieu orders the 
feudal-castle of the family Coi'ffier d’ Effiat, the ruins of which 
one sees on the hill-banks of the Loire between Tours and 
Saumur, and its towers, to be razed ‘ ‘ to the height of infamy . 5 ’ 

Saint Simon refers to Cinq-Mars the “favorite” in his 
celebrated Memoirs, and calls him a “ coxcomb.” I suppose 
the family were rivals of his. But it is a long history, with 
two sides! — which you can read and decide for yourself. 

TO AVIGNON. 

The journey lies through vineyards, not beautiful, climbing 
vines, but trained on short sticks, as in Champagne, past 
immense hills, couriers of the Alps, now in the distance, 
now close at hand, the slopes sometimes clothed with vine- 
yards, figures in blue, with bits of green, or red, even white, 
busy among the vines, villages and towns, or lonely houses 
perched high upon or nestled in the shadows of huge gray 
or brown boulders, church-towers and spires peeping through 
the deep, rich green of the olive-trees, the picturesque, chalk - 
white ruins of castles seated on numberless great brown 
rocks, looking whiter still for those rich brown tints, and 
the dark olive leaves with their silvery lining, the blue 
heavens and soft clouds hanging over the buntes Bild — 


At Last. 


235 

varied scene. And the mighty Rhone sweeps onward, 
bearing Saone and Lake Geneva waters to the sea. Count- 
less and brilliant are the tints and the perfumes of the land 
of the olive, orange, oleander. 

VoiPl! The battlemented, pale brown walls of Avignon, 
whose paramount interest lies in the fact that here the Popes 
reigned seventy years. In the reign of Philippe le Bel, 
Pope Clement V. changed the Papal seat from Rome to 
Avignon at the threshold of the fourteenth century, and it 
remained the capital of the Holy See until, through the in- 
fluence of that remarkable woman, Santa Caterina di Siena, 
a diplomat, a politician, a states-woman, the Popes returned 
to Rome. This extraordinary woman preached to infuriated 
mobs, toiled among men dying of the plague, executed 
diplomatic negotiations, harangued the republic of Florence, 
corresponded with queens, interposed between kings and 
Popes. 

The next morning, a delicious breeze stirring the foliage, 
and a bright sun shining alike on people, grapes and broken 
ruins, through the narrow, awning-shaded streets, Mrs. 
Molada and Harry ascended the rock-plateau to the* cathe- 
dral, bare of beauty save the bright gaiety of the early 
sunbeams. The frescoes are much injured by age and 
moisture. 

There are many ex-voto offerings hung in the different 
chapels, reminding one that these are found all over the con- 
tinent, and especially in France and Italy. 

One familiar with Rome, will remember the chiesa * of San 


* Church of Saint Augustine. 


236 


At Last. 


Agostino, where the walls of the shrine of that much-revered 
Madonna are completely covered with these ex -votos, and 
where the lamp at her right hand is never extinguished. 
The Madonna of San Agostino is believed to possess great 
miraculous healing power. The people frequenting this 
church are called “the Ranters of Romanism.” These 
ex-votos consist of pictures, or models, of that part of the 
body, hand, foot, eye, ear, healed by appeal to the Madonna 
or some saint, hung, out of gratitude, and for the encour- 
agement of others, in that particular shrine. 

The great Palace of the Popes is close by in a superb and 
commanding position, overlooking the plain and the river. 
It was built, or rather begun, by Pope Clement VI. after his 
purchase of Avignon from the famous Jeanne, Queen of 
Naples, and Countess of Provence, she of the four husbands. 
Queen Jeanne was noted for her fascinating beauty, her 
talent and learning. She was the great-grand-daughter of 
King Raymond — Beranger IV. of Provence, the pupil of 
Boccaccio, the friend of Petrarca, the enemy of Santa 
Caterina di Siena, the most dangerous and the most dazzling 
woman of the fourteenth century. It would be difficult to 
imagine two women more diametrically opposite than this 
Queen and Saint. Queen Jeanne preferred Ovid to the 
Golden Legend, and she was the contemporary of the 
patriot Cola Rienzi, with whose principles she could have 
entertained little sympathy. Interesting but unfortunate, 
her end was a shocking tragedy. She was born amid the 
strife of antagonistic principles, and she was misguided in 
her early training by that wretched “ Catanese woman ” who 


At Last. 


237 


“lowered her morality.” It is well worth while to read her 
history together with that of her times. 

A young and pretty girl, her feet thrust in those inevitable 
sabots , H61ene by name, with her bunch of keys, conducted 
them through the deserted and faded state-rooms, the chapel 
and the chambers of the Inquisition. All is still and deserted 
now. 

Harry’s curiosity had been whetted by a perusal of por- 
tions of the history of Avignon, and as it is voluminous, to 
that history I refer my reader. Avignon awakens touching 
recollections of Petrarca, Petrarch, and the Laura whom he 
has immortalized. Her tomb is in the old city, but her 
grave was desecrated, and has disappeared, one only knows 
where it was. But a monument has been erected to her 
memory. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


NELLA RIVIERA. 


“ And fair Ausonia* ravage at his will.” 

UR friends have at length reached the regions of the 



KJ Alpes Maritimes, besung by Ariosto, the land of 
romance, sun, beauty, the land once ravaged by Goth and 
Hun, Vandal, Saracen, Moor, and plundered and oppressed 
by Italians themselves, the land conquered by the old 
Romans, whose roads still exist. But ancient Liguria dreams 
amid flowers, and dwells in peace now, under the sway of 
the sceptre of the great-souled and brave King Umberto 
Primo,f and the beautiful, accomplished, talented and in- 
tellectual Queen Margherita, thebeloved Queen of Daisies — 
la Regina delle Margherite — la Perla di Savoia, the Pearl of 


Savoy. 


The Saracen will wander here never again, nor shall the 
Moor destroy, but the land is taken possession of by invalids, 
and by gamblers, from every region of the globe. One 
revels in this land of the delicate lemon-tree, always in 
bloom and fruitage, this land of the orange and olive-tree, 
and the vine, of the evergreen carouba-tree, with its bean- 
shaped pods, the majestic Eucalyptus, the umbrella pine, the 

* Ausonia — Another and classic name for Itaiy. 

t Humbert I. 


At Last. 


239 


mulberry-tree, the evergreen camphor-tree, the pepper-tree, 
with its bunches of small, blue-black berries, the pome- 
granate, with its brilliant and gorgeous scarlet blossom, and 
its cooling, refreshing fruit, the arbutus, with its lovely 
scarlet berries, the Spanish chestnut, the almond-tree, with 
its exquisite bloom, palms of a thousand years growth, fig- 
trees of five hundred years, the medlar, the service-tree, or 
sorbe, with its pleasant and delicate pear-shaped, brown 
fruit, the stately dark green cypress, the strawberry-tree in 
its wonderful beauty, the sacred Ilex in its weird, fantastic 
forms. The Esterels are so overgrown with the cork-tree, 
an evergreen oak, quercus suber , that stripping the bark is 
become a branch of industry. 

I may here remind my reader that, although Cannes and 
its mountain-group of the Esterals are not actually in the 
Riviera $ Italia, they almost adjoin, are always spoken of in 
connection with it, and might be called the Riviera di Fran- 
cia, * as we speak of the: Riviera di Napoli, f Riviera signi- 
fies coast or shore. 

And the flora? What shall one say? The goddess 
Flora has strewn her marvellous beauties with lavish hand. 
This is the home of the lovely Mediterranean purple heath, 
the Maiden-hair, — the Italians call it V erb a della fontana — 
the spleenworts, especially the black-maiden-hair spleenwort, 
the violet, myrtle, juniper, rosemary, the handsome bright 
green euphorbia bush, exquisite orchids, the oleander and 
the aloe in wonderful blooms, the sweet delicate passion- 
flower, the fragrant lavender, wild thyme, the rose, in its 


* Francia— France. 
+ Napoli— Naples. 


240 


At Last. 


wondrous varieties, beauty and fragrance, that marvel of 
loveliness, the magnolia- tree, showered with its pure-snowy- 
white flowers, or pale pink-and- white, a glorious contrast to 
the flaming pomegranate. But, if the trees and flowers and 
ferns grow unhindered, poor woman has grievous burdens to 
bear. 

In the towns, and in the vales, one sees her carrying loads 
upon her head surpassing anything of the sort in France or 
Germany, and when a burden is too heavy for one woman, 
two women will carry it together on the head, and the babe 
is always borne on the head. 

Women clean the streets, move furniture, or a piano, 
while a man may be seen walking beside them, directing, 
but never lifting. The peasant-women are always bare- 
headed, rarely one sees a black-lace veil among the better 
sort. But they never, by any chance, enter a church bare- 
headed. If not wearing a black-lace veil, a clean white 
mouchoir is thrown over the head at the church-door before 
entering. Commend to me this reverence for the sanctuary, 
and the custom of keeping the churches always open for 
meditation and devotion, where the busy and the weary may 
retire a moment, in passing, and thus have the thought 
drawn heavenward. I have witnessed many a beautiful and 
pathetic scene of this sort in the churches of Italy. And, 
as no region can be perfect on this round world, there are 
three lawless foes that are liable to sw r oop down on this sunny 
land, three winds, the Tramontana, the Mistral and the Bise. 
The Tramontana is the north wind, icy and penetrating, 
from the Alpine snows and glaciers. The Bise is a north- 


At Last. 


241 


east wind, and the Mistral a north-west. Only a few spots 
are shielded from these lawless visitants. 

Sir Hubert and Lady Sommerville gave our friends a 
genuine royal welcome to their charming home in Cannes, 
and, in company, they made many pleasant drives among 
the mountains, and in the grand pine forest to the north of 
the city, which is, unhappily, gradually growing less, and 
will soon be gone. It was near Cannes too, that the Battle 
of Arluc was fought A. D. 72. 

The Esterels, with their forests of cork-trees, graceful 
summits and unceasing and wonderful changes, now in 
deepest shadow, again in gorgeous colors, never one instant 
the same, for motion is perpetual, are of surpassing loveliness. 
The highest peak of the range is Monte Vinaigre, a little 
over two thousand feet in height. 

The islands of Sainte Marguerite and Saint Honorat are 
about a mile from the shore, beautified with myrtle groves. 
The Isle Marguerite is called “ la rosette of the sea.” The 
fort on Isle Sainte Marguerite was the first prison of the 
mysterious Man of the Iron Mask, and the illustrious Mar- 
shal Bazaine escaped from it. Olive groves abound, and 
the Eucalyptus, not indigenous to the Riviera, was first 
planted here, and has since made its triumphal way through, 
even to Rome, where it adorns the Abbey of Le Tre Fontane 
— the Three Fountains — in the Campagna, where Paul was 
beheaded, planted there by command of la Regina Mar- 
gherita, thus to arrest the plague in that spot, which it has 
effectually accomplished, that tree possessing the peculiar 
property of absorbing noxious vapors from the soil and the 


242 


At Last. 


atmosphere. The good Monks of the Abbey assured me 
that the third year after the planting of these trees, they had 
not a single case of the plague, which was so virulent here, 
that a Monk seized with it, never reached Rome alive, a 
distance of about a mile and a half. The Monks of Tre 
Fontane make a liqueur from the Eucalyptus which is highly 
esteemed. These two islands were originally called Lero 
and Lerina, or the Larins. 

St. Honorat — Honoratus, a converted Roman — a good 
and brave man, planted the Cross and founded the Convent 
of the Lerins on Lerina, probably, but it is a disputed point, 
about A. D. 410, though some authorities have dated as 
early as A. D. 375. This Monastery was a school of phil- 
osophy for Europe for centuries. The two truths grasped 
most strongly by Honoratus were the Fatherhood of God, 
the Brotherhood of Man, truths which are now becoming of 
such intense interest to the church. 

There is a legend that the Lerina was filled with serpents, 
and that Honoratus, by some means, disposed of them; 
also that there was not a spring of fresh water on the island, 
but that out of the limestone rock, at his prayer, a spring 
burst forth. 

St. Patrick was a Monk in the Convent of the Larins, and 
it is singular that the legend of St. Honorat is also told of 
him regarding the serpents in Ireland. The bold, simple, 
objective teaching of St. Patrick, may be taken as a specimen 
of the way in which the Monks of the Larins proclaimed 
the message of their faith. In the halls of Tara one of the 
Princesses asked St. Patrick if he were not of the men of 
the hills. 


At Last 


243 


“Would it not be better for you to confess to the true 
and living God, than to enquire concerning my race ? ” 

Then the Princesses asked: “ Who is God? ” 

“God inspireth all things, He sustaineth all things, He 
giveth light to the light of the sun, He hath made springs in 
a dry land, and dry islands in the sea.” 

The history of this Lerins Monastry is most instructive. 
The Convent was destroyed by the Moors in 1 107, a terrible 
massacre of the Monks followed, five hundred were slain, 
some escaped to the Esterels, and afterwards returned to 
find two Monks on the island. Honoratus did not die in his 
beloved Convent. He was created Bishop of Arles, and 
died there. “St. Honorat’s Well” still supplies the island 
and the new Convent. The ancient monastery is a heap of 
ruins. 

In the beautiful Bay of Cannes the green isles still flourish, 
the wild sarsaparilla, the milfoil that banishes melancholy, 
the resinous pines, the sleep-giving henbane, and the fennel 
and the aloe, that strengthen the sight, still grow. ‘ ‘ The 
seven chapels” are gone, but the “plant of pardon” — the 
Cineraria maritima still shows its spikes of yellow flowers 
where St. Honorat taught an ideal, the consecrated life of 
the Beatitudes. His sister Margaret, named for Sainte 
Marguerite of Antioch, who vanquished the fiery dragon, 
dwelt on Lero, now bearing her name. Honoratus visited 
her there “ when the cherry-trees were in blossom,” for no 
woman might land on Lerina, much less visit the Convent of 
the Lerins. 

It is to such great souls as that of Honoratus, that the 


244 


At Last . 


world owes the preservation of precious manuscripts and of 
learning in those dark and lawless ages, when all would have 
perished but for their loving care. That abuses crept in 
later, does not lessen our debt of gratitude to these noble 
men. 

Lady Mabel arranged a carriage-trip by the Corniche , or 
Cornice Road from Nizza — Nice — to San Remo. Leaving 
Nice, they enter the famous Cornice by a rather steep ascent 
around Monte Grosso. This bold ridge commands a vast 
and marvellous view, including the old chateau and the 
gardens of the city, the classic heights of Cimies, the mon- 
astery in ruins, the mystic turnings of the valley of Paillon, 
which remain in view until lost among the Alps white with 
ages of snow. Ascending now the shoulder of the Aggel, 
the scene changes to wilder moods of bold bluffs, bare rocks 
beset the way, far below stretch the tideless sea and the 
rugged shore. 

Reaching the plateau of Eza, a new set of pictures un- 
folds. Eza is the most picturesque thing, the most fascinat- 
ing spot on this coast, and it has glorious carouba-trees. At 
the foot of Monte Soleia lies Portus Oliviae, the Villafranca 
of to-day, Eza with the ruins of a castello built by the 
Saracens. Then comes Turbia with the massive fragment 
of the Augustan monument, telling of the Roman conquest 
of Liguria. 

At Turbia the Cornice begins to descend, sharp turns, 
gorges, overhanging cliffs. Now comes Roccabruna cling- 
ing to its landslip, with its promontory, and, eccolo! Mentone! 
Mountains above and behind mountains, miles of serpentining 


At Last. 


245 


coast-line, the sea — Shelley’s “deep untrampled floor” — of 
purple-blue, the slopes terraced and clad with vines, olives, 
lemon and orange-trees, villages, hamlets, ruins, chapels, 
churches, convents, perched high on cliff or precipice, above, 
wild and bare Alpine summits, a blue cloudless sky, and 
wild and romantic valleys opening to the sea adown which 
rush the Alpine ‘ ‘ torrents ’ ’ to the great waters. 

The most beautiful part of the Cornice Road lies between 
Nice and Mentone, a distance of nineteen miles. At Turbia 
the scene is superb. Looking backward the entire coast to 
Cannes and the Esterels; forward it is surpassingly lovely; 
on the right Monaco, Monte Carlo, the Mediterranean, left 
the steep Monte Aggel, and descending, Roccabruna bursts 
into view, and turning a curve, Mentone and its encircling 
amphitheatre of mountains. The route by train is also very 
interesting and beautiful, the highest peaks visible being 
Monte Sant’ Agnese, the Roc d’Ormea, and the Berceau, 
nearly four thousand feet in height. Behind rise the snow- 
clad summits of the Alpes Maritimes, rising from five to 
nine thousand feet, unseen from the lower route. 

The Riviera di Ponente — western — extends from Nice to 
Genoa, the Riviera di Levante — eastern — from Genoa to 
Lucca, Leghorn. The Cornice was widened by the first 
Napoleon, and follows the windings of the coast-line, strictly 
taken from Nice to Spezzia. From Hyeres to Genoa it 
is 263 miles; from Genoa to Leghorn 112. 

Of all the fascinating valleys of the Riviera, the loveliest 
are the Oniglia, the largest, and the Nervia. But there are 
many bewitching vales. From Bordighera radiate lovely 


246 


At Last . 


valleys, mostly with carriage drives. In the Nervia valley, 
first one passes Campo Rosso, then the “torrent” — they 
call the mountain streams torrents here — Dolce Acqua, with 
the lovely ruins of the Castello of the Dorias. A lovely 
Idyl is this Dolce Acqua. On the summit of the hill, on 
the slopes of which Old Mentone is built, high above the 
sea, and directly above the town, and where formerly stood 
the feudal stronghold of the Grimaldis, is the Campo Santo 
— Holy Field — beautiful with marble monuments, and a 
wealth of roses and other blooms. 

It may be interesting to recall how this name came to be 
first applied to cemeteries in Italy. When the Pisans laid 
out their cemetery, in some regards one of the most beautiful 
and remarkable in the world, the earth was brought from 
the Holy Land to cover the soil to a considerable depth. 
Hence they applied the very appropriate name of Campo 
Santo. Volumes have been written on this remarkable 
cemetery. What a view from this elevated Holy Field at 
Mentone ! 

East, Ventimiglia, the most ancient fortress in the Riviera, 
and the coast-line to Bordighera, west the Tete de Chien 
— Dog’s Head — at Monaco, and the coast to the Esterels, 
north the sublime mountains around Mentone. 

Monaco, on its elevated promontory jutting out into the 
sea, is only ten miles from Nice, and five from Mentone, 
and there one hears the constant rattle of wheels announc- 
ing the hurried approach of the gamblers from Mentone. 
Oh, the beauty of this spot, second only to Eza. 

That magnificent balustraded terrazzo , those gardens, 


At Last. 


247 


those flowers, those roses, the oleanders and the palms, the 
aloes and cacti, the bamboo and the banana, the fragrant 
air, the sapphire sea and the transparent deep blue of the 
heavens. The grandeur and the oriental beauty of it all are 
almost unsurpassed in Italy. 

One says in Naples : “ Vedi Napoli e poi mori. ’ ’ See 

Naples and die. They say too : ‘ ‘ The Bay of Naples is a 

piece of heaven fallen down upon the earth. ’ ’ 

Yes, Naples and her Rieviera, east and west, are lovely, 
but Monaco is her peer. Oh, it is a bleeding pity that a 
spot of such beauty should be so distinctly and emphatically 
disreputable, so handed over, body and soul, to the Demon 
Gambling ! 

If the Princes of Monaco were tyrants they did not stand 
alone in that, and they had courage in them. Prince 
Honors I. fought at Lepanto, and brought home a trophy 
which is displayed yet. San Remo — formerly San Romolo 
— named from its first Bishop, interests one greatly by vir- 
tue of its quaint, narrow streets, frequently so steep as to re- 
quire low steps to mount them, the high old houses being 
supported now and then by arches built across the streets 
from one house over to the opposite one, which looks odd 
and not ugly, rather picturesque. Our friends enjoyed the 
view both from Capo Verde and Capo Nero, superb from 
both points. 

From Capo Nero, eight hundred feet high, the snow- 
crowned mountains of Corsica, eighty miles distant, are 
clearly defined against that glorious sky, especially at sun- 
rise and sunset. Capo Verde is crowned with the chapel of 


248 


At Last. 


the Madonna della Guardia, surrounded by cypress trees. 
From this point one has a view of several of the spires of 
Monte Bignone. How sublime those silent spires of God’s 
temple ! 

If you, Cara Mia, have seen this land of beauty, you 
have joined me in this sketch of a very happy journey, and 
your fancy has recalled its wondrous scenes. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


ENNABELLA, CASA DAGMARA. 

“This way and that soft veils of air, 

And colors never twice the same, 

Woven of wind, and dew, and flame.” 

“A land of sea and sun, of flowers and perfumes.” 


ADY MABEL had a lady friend in England who 



L/ possessed a villa in the Riviera. This friend was 
wintering in Greece, and her house was inhabited by the 
housekeeper, Mellingby, and a couple of other house ser- 
vants, and the gardener Antonio. They all drove one 
morning to inspect the place. 

The townlet of Ennabella is seated among and on hills, 
near violet covered valleys, through which echo the wild 
fantasies of mountain torrents, leaping from rock and preci- 
pice adown the gorges, where picturesque red roses look 
through scarlet salvia, purple veronica, jasmine, heliotrope, 
the white clematis montana, the great white iris — fiordilisa — 
the purple trailing kennedias, splendid judas trees, and mil- 
lions of violets and lordly caroubas. 

Indeed, how true, Bella Italia is the Alma Mater, not only 
of Art but of Nature. 

Casa Dagmara stands on a lovely hill of half-a-dozen sum- 
mits it would seem, for its top is varied with numerous 


At Last. 


250 

terraces, and the hill is overgrown with no end of trees and 
flowers, so that the house is in the midst of large, well-kept 
gardens, and a noble terrazzo with handsome balustrade, 
stretches along the brow of the hill in front of it, and a per- 
gola * completely covered with a luxuriance of sweetest 
scented roses, stands on one end of this terrazzo. There 
are groups of olive trees, lemon trees in bloom, and fruit 
on the same tree ; lovely pomegranates also in bloom and in 
fruitage, in fact, this pomegranate is the most remarkable 
and the most brilliant thing of the Riviera with its flaming, 
gorgeous flower and its rich fruit. 

Then there are orange-trees laden with their golden glory, 
vines, purple with grapes, a fontana bordered with maiden- 
hair, and one terrazzo has a bewitching allee of ilexes, f with 
seats here and there. Near the fontana a group of solemn 
dignified cypresses throws deep shadows on a marble seat 
beneath them, and in the glittering crystal deeps of those 
liquid pearl — diamonds of the leaping water. 

“ Un Paradiso, mater!” cried Harry. “What would 
one have? ” he added. “ This is just exactly what we want 
Lady Mabel.” 

There is a large, bright, sunny drawing-room, containing 
a piano, a library adjoining with an organ, both rooms 
opening upon the gardens and the broad terrazzo. Then 
Harry makes the pleasant discovery that there is a pretty 

* Pet gold — arbor. 

f Ilex— an evergreen oak— The Germans call it Die Stein-Eiche, Stone oak, 
since it frequently grows out of the rocks. Seen in the moonlight, its weird fan- 
tastic forms resemble the imagined contortions of spirits in pain, reminding one 
strongly of those forms seen at Pompeii. 


At Last. 


251 


English pony-carriage, and a pony, sleek and sweet-tem- 
pered — Giotto by name — who is so obliging as to accept 
lumps of sugar, and will scent the apples in a pocket and 
hunt them out with the skill of one of “Fagen’s” trained 
pick-pockets. 

This is the climax. And there is a saddle too! And the 
view! Below, not far distant, glitters the sunlit sea, coast- 
lines stretch, stretch around curves, and hide behind great 
rocks, distant ruins or chapels are perched on seemingly 
inaccessible heights, and the Alpine peaks of never-melting 
snows rise in sublime majesty. No Tramontana, no Bise, 
no Mistral will penetrate here. The rental until June for 
this Elysium is ridiculously low. 

“Here we abide, my dear Lady Mabel. It is simply 
perfect. ’ ’ 

Then Mrs. Molada added in a lower tone, “what a rav- 
ishing nook to die in. The sweet name of the villa is sug- 
gestive Dawn-Dagmara. It whispers to me of the dawn of 
the Sun-land, where the light is everlasting.” 

‘ l Allez , ’ ’ said Lady Mabel. “You are sad because weary. 
It is the dawn of new health arnica mia , — of new hopes, 
new life. You have not spoken of such a thing to your 
Harry ? ’ ’ 

“No, no, not yet. But he must know soon. I shall 
never be well, never return to Canada. I am deeply con- 
vinced of that. I hear a voice calling me away.” 

“ Oh, but you are sad, homesick.” 

“ No, I am perfectly happy. All is just as it should be. 
I do not choose. I am all in the Father’s hand. What He 
does is well done. I am content, perfectly.” 


252 


At Last. 


“ You have a wonderful faith arnica mia .” 

Lady Mabel gazed in the great clear eyes and was deeply 
moved. She too was learnig a new lesson. Just then Sir 
Hubert and Harry with Don Pedro, approached, and the 
conversation ended, but Lady Mabel remembered it with 
trembling forebodings. 

Mellingby would undertake care and attendance assisted 
by Pisa the housemaid, and Elmo the footman. Antonio 
had charge of the stable. It was arranged that Mellingby 
should expect them on the Wednesday of the following 
week, and they would arrive for six o’clock pranzo — dinner 
— and Sir Hubert and Lady Mabel were to spend a few days 
with them to make it seem like a home-coming. 

During this interval, they visited many interesting points, 
and among them the Red Rocks at Mentone — Les Roches 
Rouges — a retreat of the aborigines of Liguria. There are 
five of these grottoes, in which the remains of pre-historic 
days of the Sto?ie Age , as flints and polished stones, in 
spears, hooks, javelin points, knives, have been found. 

In 1872, a wonderfully-preserved Troglodyte was discov- 
ered in them. The botanist, the geologist, the archaeologist, 
the palaeontologist, the ethnologist, finds himself in a mine 
of wealth here, and throughout the Riviera. 

“These caves remind one,” said Sir Hubert, “of the 
curious Troglodytic city on the southern coast of Sicily, 
near Modica, in the deej> rocky vale of Ispica. Here are 
cliffs hewn out into numerous habitations, consisting, in 
several instances, of two or three stories, with doors and 
windows. This singular city bears no historical name, and 


1 


At Last. 


253 


there is no trace of its aboriginal dwellers, nothing to intimate 
who they were, or what became of them.” 

‘ ‘ That is an interesting fact of which I was not aware, ’ ’ 
said Mrs. Molada. “ How true it is one must be an omni- 
verous reader, a student all one’s life to keep one’s self au 
courant with the age. ’ ’ 

Then came that visit to Genova la Superba — for Harry’s 
especial delectation — a review to the experienced travelers, 
and a half-day at the celebrated Villa Palavicini, some seven 
miles west of Genoa, an Idyl of the Orient, decked with 
noble trees of all lands, flowers; what scarlet pomegranate- 
blooms, and exquisite passion-flowers, temples, lakes and 
grottoes, with a boat, hills clad in woods. 

If any criticism were possible, it would be that there might 
be too much art, too little nature. It was a riant — smiling 
— picture through which the Strada Ferrata whirled our 
party, the sun-lit sea, curving coast-lines, hills, mountains, 
ruins, distant views. 

“ Eccola /” cried Harry. “Proud Geneva!” 

First they drove to the highest chiesa — church — on a hill 
quite above the city, commanding a marvellous view of the 
city and the gulf, the Chiesa Santa Maria di Carignano , and 
the drive up to it is most charming. Then they took a 
boat and were rowed out four or five miles on that far-famed 
gulf, to view the other half of the picture from the chiesa. 

How superb lay the crescent-shaped city, amid its en- 
circling hills of living green. At each horn of the crescent 
is a Molo-pier, a light-house terminating each. That of the 
Molo Vecchio, solid rock, nearly four hundred feet in height, 


254 


At Last 


is a rich ruby light which glimmers like a star at night. 
What a panorama! Forts and ramparts stand on the lower 
eminences, splendid houses of glittering whiteness rise tier 
above tier, the white marble palaces, the Palazzo Doria 
prominent among them, the orange and citron groves, the 
blue waters covered with shipping from every clime. Their 
hotel is a marble palace — Fiesco’s — marble stairways, marble 
pillars, frescoes still unfaded. 

They drive through the magnificent Strada Nuova — a 
marble street of marble palaces, which have such beautiful 
fa5ades, marble pillars, sculptured ornaments, — a massive 
splendor distinguishes them, — these imposing piles of marble. 
There are so many of these palaces, such numbers of picture- 
galleries, that Harry may just have a glimpse of one or two. 
It would demand a volume to describe them, and weeks to 
study them. Silent and forsaken they stand, relics of a past 
glory for Genoa. 

The Palazzo Brignole is peculiar in this that its outer walls 
are of a bright crimson, whilst the ornaments are of white 
marble. The effect in the brilliant sun is gorgeous. It has 
a noble picture-gallery. The Palazzo Serra is overflowing 
with precious things. The Doria is resplendent in snowy 
whiteness, and delicious gardens, plashing fountains, and 
marble terraces charm with gorgeous tints and orient fra- 
grance. These palaces have marble halls, marble staircases, 
marble statuary — marble is a mere bagatelle in this luxuriant 
city of marble pavements and trottoirs — foot-ways. 

The chiesa of L’ Annunziata is of extraordinary magnifi- 
cense. It is one mass of gold, blue, marble of every color, 


At Last. 


255 


bright pictures set in golden panels, lapis-lazuli, statues, 
crimson silk hangings, all illuminated with the golden beams 
of the setting sun. This church contains the celebrated 
Cena — Last Supper — by Procaccino. As the truth in toto 
is to be told in this true story, I must frankly confess that 
our friends were sadly disappointed in this picture. But it 
is hung in an unfavorable light. 

Mellingby received her new mistress and Harry, and their 
guests with tante gentilezze y strengthened by her fellow- 
servants drawn up in the hall. The beautiful rooms below 
and above, and the dining-room, were decked with mimosa, 
ferns, and fragrant with a wealth of blooms, and a pranzo was 
served fit for a royal repast, and a dessert of luscious green 
figs, grapes, oranges, peaches, pomegranates and other 
fruits nestling in green leaves and scarlet arbutus berries. 

“This frittura of cervelli , reminds me,” said Mrs. 
Molada, “of the first time I partook of this dish. It was 
when we visited the great Maestro Liszt at the Villa d’Este 
at Tivoli. We dined on that renowned terrazzo. It was 
the 22nd of October, yet we sat in the open air two hours 
at table, lost in a rare conversation, and such a view as one 
does not often dine with. The Campagna, Rome, San 
Pietro lay at our feet. We were in the heart of the Sabine 
Hills, and to the north, behind Rome, the proud, lonely 
Soracte stood in stately majesty, whilst his lordly train, the 
“olive-sandalled” Apennines, maintained a respectful dis- 
tance. The cervelli * were like air-puffs, light and delicate, 
just like these.” 

* The dish referred to — Cervelli— consists of sheep-brains, made round and the 
size of a plum, and fried in olive oil. It is an Italian dish par excellence. 


256 


At Last. 


And the chat was of many lands, for all were widely 
traveled except Harry, and merry laughter rang out, and 
Lady Mabel proved good her title to a “living sunbeam.” 
And then they went out on the great terrazzo, where they 
found Harry’s “amber-coated” Don Pedro, and sauntered 
up and down viewing purple sea and winding coast-lines, 
and beheld the sun set in saffron and gold behind the snow- 
crowned Alps. And music and singing filled the evening. 
Then the attendants were summoned to the library, and 
Harry placed a Bible before Sir Hubert, and they sang a 
hymn to the organ, and committed themselves to the All- 
Father for the night. 

Our hero rose the following morning with dawn, plunged 
into his cold bath, and hastened out to reconnoitre their new 
domains. He found Antonio busy among his flowers. 

‘ ‘ Buon Giorno , Antonio ! ’ * 

“ Buon Giorno , Signorino! ” 

“Your flowers are well tended, Antonio. You seem to 
love them.” 

“kSV, Signorino , the flowers are my friends, they talk to 
me, and I to them.” 

“ How is it with the moral flowers, Antonio ? ” 

“Ah, Signorino mio, the moral flowers are difficile . The 
weeds grow so fast, and they spring up just where one never 
expected to see them, and they choke and degrade the 
flowers. ’ ’ 

“Yes, they are difficile. One must just pull them up, 
roots and all. Pull up the weeds I mean, pull them up, pull 
them up.” 


At Last. 


257 


“Si, Si, Signorino! ‘ Pull them up, roots and all, pull 
them up!’ Easier said than done,” said Antonio, shaking 
his head. 

Leaving the gardener to this early moral problem, Harry 
gazed at the sunrising, took a run to the cypresses, the fon- 
tana and the ilex avenue, and then started down the steep 
via into a lower one, to look around the townlet. He soon 
reached a lower street, and found a fanciulla standing sob- 
bing bitterly over a basket of fruit she had let fall in the 
gutter. 

‘ ‘ Che roba e questa f ” he enquired. ‘ ‘ What is the 

matter.” 

“Ahime! Va piano!" cried the little damsel, uncon- 
sciously quoting Dante. “Oh, be careful. Do not step on 
the fruit. I must pick it up. It is for Lisetta, who is ill, 
and la madre has no more money,” and she began again to 
weep bitterly. 

“Poverella mia! Cosa fa f — my poor little thing! what 
matter ? We will go to the mercato and buy another basket. 
This is spoiled, quite. Come.” 

“Santa Maria! Ma , thou art good! Grazie! grazie ! — 
thank you.” 

“ Come then! Avanti! Don Pedro. Where is the mer- 
cato little one ? ” 

“ Far down, at the end of that long via, round the corner, 
in the piazzetta. ’ * 

Harry bought a beautiful basket of grapes, green figs, 
oranges and pomegranates. 

“ What is your name little one ? ” 


258 


At Last. 


4 ‘ Rosetta. ’ ’ 

“ Where do you live, Rosetta ? ” 

“ Down there in the Via San Martino.” 

4 ‘ I will go with you and see where it is. May I bring 
mia madre to see you and Lisetta ? ’ ’ 

“Si, si, siccuro ,” and Rosetta patted Don Pedro’s head 
timidly. 

“ He will not hurt you. Don Pedro is kind.” 

They soon reached the casetta , — little house — when they 
said addio, and the happy child disappeared with a smile 
on her red lips. Harry looked at his little watch, which 
Lady Mabel had given him in Genoa, and started on 
the run for home. He found breakfast ready, and the 
friends assembled on the terrazzo, wondering what had 
become of him. He was not long in telling the story of 
his encounter with Rosetta, and it was decided they would 
all go and see the sick girl after breakfast. Accord- 
ingly, soon after breakfast they descended the hill, and 
soon reached the casetta in the Via San Martino, Mrs. 
Molada taking a jar of jelly for Lisetta, and Harry a 
nosegay of all the choicest blooms he could gather at 
Dagmara. 

La madre — Signora Savello, was working at her lace- 
cushion, and the pins flew in and out in a bewildering 
fashion to Harry. Lisetta was seated in a sunny window 
eating grapes, and Rosetta was cutting a luscious pome- 
granate for her. A cough interrupted frequently the enjoy- 
ment of the fruit. Rosetta rose and came timidly forward, 
patting Don Pedro. 


At Last. 


259 


“ Mia madre , this is the Signorino * who bought the fruit 
for me this morning.’ ’ 

The madre rose and curtesied respectfully. Mrs. Molada 
introduced her friends, and they moved to the window where 
the sick girl sat. The girls were twins, and both had raven 
black hair, great black eyes, and a queenly form so often 
found among this royal Italian race. They still show their 
descent from the stately Romans. One often sees the air 
and manners of an Emperor in the peasant class. 

“See, Lisetta mia, here is the Signorino who sent you 
this fruit, and look at the beautiful flowers he brings you.” 

The thin, pale face and the beautiful eyes became radiant. 

“ Grazie, grazie, Signorino! How good of you to bring 
me the flowers; I love them so.” 

Then they all shook hands with her, and Rosetta said, 

‘ 4 See Lisetta, the beautiful dog. Thou mayest caress him, 
he will not hurt thee. The Signorino says ‘he is kind.’ ” 

Lisetta coughed then patted Don Pedro. 4 4 But he is 
beautiful! ” she said with a smile. 

No, Lisetta did not walk now any more. She was grown 
too weak for that. Sir Hubert fancied she might drive out. 
Yes, la madre thought so too. They all thought so, and 
Harry began to make plans in his busy brain in which the 
pony-carriage and Giotto figured prominently. Did Lisetta 
drink goat’s milk? Not much. La madre had no goat. 
Now and then a neighbor sent a cup of milk, but that was 
not enough. No. It became clear that Lisetta must have 

* Signorino is a diminutive of Signore,— Mr. and gentlemen, and signifies 
littie gentleman. 


26 o 


At Last . 


a goat. And they would come after lunch and take her out 
for a drive a “little minute,” just when it was brightest and 
sunniest. 

“ Now, Lady Mabel, we must buy a goat; presto /” cried 
Harry, so soon as they were out of hearing. 

“Suppose,” said Sir Hubert, “we just cross the via to 
that grocer shop, and make enquiries as to where a goat 
might be found.” 

The man knew a neighbor higher up among the hills, who 
had a number of goats, and he was at once commissioned 
to secure and send one to the Contadina Savello. 

“And subito-presto ,” cried Harry. “It is for the sick 
Lisetta. ’ ’ 

“Si, si, the goat shall arrive before noon.” 

“That being settled,” said Lady Mabel, “ I want to drive 
you to make a couple of calls before we return to Cannes, 
which must be on Saturday evening. Since new arrivals 
must call first on the Continent, I will introduce you in 
person. Lord and Lady Southglen occupy Villa Bellatesta 
on the hill adjoining yours. You will be charmed with 
Lady Alice. She is widely traveled, highly cultivated, 
kind and amiable — what the Italians call simpatica. They 
only arrived last week, and are wintering in Ennabella. 
Then we call at the Vicarage on Dr. and Mrs. Muchlove — 
and never was a name so appropriate. Dr. Muchlove’ s 
church is in Pietra Santa, but they reside here for quiet, 
health and economy. There is no church of English-speak- 
ing in Ennabella, and these are the only English families 
here.” 


At Last . 


261 


Sir Hubert ordered the carriage at the albergo , and then 
they walked back to Villa Dagmara and spent the rest of 
the morning inspecting its many charms. “It is more 
blessed to give than to receive,” and Harry felt the blessed- 
ness of the giving, as he handed Lisetta the spray of roses 
he had brought, and saw her eyes brighten, and as he saw 
her delight on the drive, Rosetta at her side, he on the seat 
opposite, for the rest of the party were to be picked up after 
the carriage returned. When they brought Lisetta home, 
la madre met them with a radiant face. 

“A goat has been sent, and I have milked her, — here 
little one, drink this cup of warm milk here in the sun, 
before they bring you in.” 

Rosetta clapped her hands. ‘ ‘ Who sent the goat mia 
madre ? ’ ’ 

“ I do not know little one.” 

“ No? But / know. It’s been the Signorino.” 

“ No, it was Sir Hubert,” cried Harry. 

“ You had it done, I know.” 

“Yes, he did, Rosetta. Thou art right,” said Sir 
Hubert. 

“ I knew it, I knew it.” 

The visits were made, all parties were delighted, and as 
both Lord and Lady Southglen and Dr. and Mrs. Muchlove 
were old friends of Lady Mabel’s, Mrs. Molada invited them 
to pranzo the following evening, and a most enjoyable little 
dinner-party it was. The conversation turned on art in 
general, and finally on sculpture. 

The Southglens had seen all the finest art of Europe, and 


262 


At Last. 


were a decided authority on statuary. They were describing 
a view they had once had of the statuary of the Vatican by 
torch-light — the peculiar beauty which torch-light gives to 
statuary. When the flambeaux were so held as to cast the 
light behind the marble, the effect became very striking, 
and the repose, or action of the statue stood out with a re- 
markable degree of force. 

“ Imagine,” said Lady Alice, “the statues of the Cortile 
Belvedere seen in this way; I assure you the effect is very 
remarkable. They almost seem to start into life. The 
Antinous, that statue of perfect repose and beauty, the 
Apollo, the representation of the pure spiritual, and the un- 
fathomable agony of the Laocoon.” 

‘ 4 1 have a peculiar thought regarding the pain described 
in the Laocoon,” remarked Lord Southglen. “ I have fre- 
quently questioned if the sculptor had not a conception of 
the eternity of pain, and to portray the idea in this marvel 
of art. Had he a conception of the eternal duration of 
mental pain ? This thought could only be expressed through 
the representation of physical pain, as in the Bible. Why 
did he use the serpents as instruments ? Might it be that 
the relentless unyielding coils of those awful serpents, and 
the anguish of the three men, for they are all men, but the 
father is a giant, are all types, emblems of the eternal suffer- 
ings for sin ? ” 

“ That is a most striking thought, it is quite new to me,” 
said Sir Hubert. “If we were certain that the artist knew 
anything of the Christian religion, I should be certain that 
your suggestions were true. And he may have seen some 


At Last. 


263 


Jews on his travels, as Plato and Longinus did. That is 
how they acquired any light they had of Divine Revelation.” 

4 4 The Perseus by Canova must have produced a fine 
effect,” said Mrs. Molada, “thus seen.” 

“Marvellously lovely, yes,” replied Lady Alice, “and 
that exquisite work of antiquity, the Meleager.” 

“ Many critics,” Mrs. Molada added, “ object to the two 
Boxers being with the Perseus; but to me, the contrast of 
the animal in these, brings out in double force the intense 
beauty and nobility of the Perseus.” 

“ That is just my thought,” remarked Sir Hubert. 

“ Do you know,” said Lady Mabel, “ the Genius of the 
Vatican, is one of the loveliest things in Rome; in fact of 
Europe. I think it should be in the Cortile Belvedere.” 

“And the Minerva Medica,” said Mrs. Molada. “ How 
I love it! Nothing but Sight can picture that queenly 
statue to the mind.” 

“I quite agree,” said Lord Southglen, “and you re- 
member those two wonderfully realistic portrait-busts of the 
two young Caesars. They were superb by torchlight as well 
as those two statues last mentioned. The thought comes 
to me always when looking at these master-pieces of Art in 
any field, how wonderful this high power in man is, from 
God given, to express a great conception, thus perpetuating 
the thought down the ages. We might multiply examples. 
The Moses or the David of the mighty Angelo, or his 
Pieta in San Pietro, or Bernini’s yet more impressive Pieta 
in the Lateran. The suffering, the death of the Christ of 
God, the agonizing sorrow of the Mother. Take then the 


264 


At Last. 


thought that Raffaello has so exquisitely painted in his 
Transfiguration on the Mount. There is inexpressible sor- 
row, trouble on earth, but help is close at hand, one has but 
to reach out and touch and take by means of Faith. What 
a sermon that picture is preaching to the world! ” 

“I am reminded,” said Mrs: Molada, 4 ‘of our view 
of the eighty-three busts of the old Roman Emperors, Em- 
presses, and their near relations, by torch-light, in the Hall 
of the Emperors at the Capitol. This is possibly the most 
interesting portrait gallery and character-study in the world. 
In the centre of the hall, you will remember, is the seated, su- 
perb statue of Agrippina the elder, the grand -daughter of 
Augustus. Nothing could give one an idea of the grace 
and loveliness of this statue, seated in the old Roman Sedia, 
as seen under torch-light. I regretted much that the statue 
of Agrippina the younger, quite as beautiful, was not also 
there, near her imperial mother; they ought to be together, 
but it is in the Museum at Naples. Then we went into the 
Hall of the Dying Gladiator, besung so pathetically by 
Byron, and saw the three gems of the Capitol in the torch- 
light, the Gladiator, the Antinous of the Capitol and the 
Faun of Praxiteles, besides, the Amazon, the Lycian Apollo, 
the Juno, and that lovely symbol of the Soul, with its choice 
of Good or Evil at hand, a little maiden clasping a dove, 
but assaulted by a snake. How they all seemed to start 
forth in life ! ” 

During this fascinating conversation, my hero sat, eating 
nothing, eyes flashing fire, as he turned to look at each 
speaker in turn. How varied is the mystic web of which 


At Last. 265 

mind is formed, or, possibly more correctly expressed, 
grows, expands. 

‘ ‘ I am deeply grateful for this brilliant resume of art, ’ ’ 
said Dr. Muchlove, ‘ ‘ it has been a mental picture-gallery to 
me, and I am sure to my wife. ’ ’ 

“ It has indeed,” said Mrs. Muchlove, “almost equal to 
seeing one’s favorites again.” 

“ Your modesty is very edifying,” remarked Lady Mabel, 
laughing, “but I suspect you could teach us all if you 
chose.” 

“ My dear Lady Mabel, ” said Lord Southglen, “permit 
me to whisper a secret in your ear. Are you aware who is 
the author of that elaborate work — Art — Its Mission? It 
will soon be a public secret.” 

“Ah! Is that true? Then I congratulate myself on just 
having read the book, and of discovering the author.” 

* ‘ I was just wondering, ’ * said Sir Hubert, ‘ ‘ to give a 
violent turn to our subject, how you are all proposing to 
reach Pietra* Santa for Divine service on Sundays.” 

“ If I may be permitted,” said Lord Southglen, “ I would 
propose that we all drive in our carriage. It is sufficiently 
large, since we are only two. If Mrs. Molada will allow us, 
we will call for her and Harry on our way to pick up Dr. 
and Mrs. Muchlove. We shall make a nice family party. 
We are the only English here, and we must be very 
clannish. ’ ’ 

“ That is most thoughtful and kind, and we gladly accept. 
I see we shall not be permitted to feel like strangers.” 


Pietra — Pronounce Peaytra, 


266 


At Last. 


Mrs. Molada rose from table, Harry glided across and 
took her arm, and they all went out on the terrazzo to view 
the lovely scene. In silence they watched the golden sunset. 
For a brief moment dark rich purple deepened in the sky, 
and a million rose hues fell on the sea, and mingled with the 
blue, then shade and gray deepened, quickly followed by the 
great silver moon, and the stars, and night and silence fell 
on mountain and sea. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

DISCOVERIES. 


POST TENEBRAS LUX. 

ACQUA DOLCE. 

Acqua Dolce! Sweet! I greet thee, 

. Echoes flinging through the mountains, 

Thousand fancies bringing to me 
In thy leaping, limpid fountains. 

Silence but for thy wild chanting! 

Silent is thy fallen fortress, 

Silent now the foe on-marching, 

Helpless now the Doria’s prowess. 

Where are now thy merriest throngs ? 

Romance and lute of Troubadour? 

Dost thou not hear the festive songs ? 

Silent these hall forevermore. 

The hopeless captive now is free! 

The play is done, the farce is o’er; 

Thy solitude is sweet to me. 

I dream of what can be no more. 

“AT last! Carissima, we are at home settled , and ready to 
begin our music and reading in earnest. But let us 
unpack the cabinet, and place it under that lovely Carlo 


268 


At Last. 


Dolce Madonna. How suitable and fortunate that just that 
Madonna is in the drawing-room.” 

Elmo was summoned, and the cabinet soon stood in the 
desired place. Then Mrs. Molada and her precious boy 
went out among the beauties of Casa Dagmara. The 
golden light of the early sun, tinted with rose, kissed the 
radiant morning. The silent mountains rose into the blue, 
and the sea, like a costly sapphire, threw back its intense 
blue light into the fire of the sun, its reposeful surface 
giving no hint of its possible treachery when driven by the 
tempting winds. A sail or two glided over the waters. 
They mounted to the highest of the hill-top terraces, the 
better to see the freshness and beauty of the morning, and 
the distant views, the matchless panorama of the mountains 
and the sea. 

All was a delicious silence, broken into sweet sounds only 
by the plashing of the cypress-shadowed fontana, and the 
improvisations of the wild-wood-birds. The olive-trees 
were laden with olives, and threw soft shadows on lawns and 
flowers, the golden splendors of citron and orange enriched the 
deep greens among which they hung, and the blossoms of the 
lemon-trees ;in 1 pomegranates offered their incense orisons. 

“ Do you know Harry, every Christian should always be 
like the citron or lemon-tree, and the pomegranate, 
because they are always both in bloom and fruitage. They 
have the beauty of the flower, and the usefulness of the 
fruit. So a soul should have the sweet bloom and beauty of 
Love, and the fruit of works as a sanction, a proof to an 
incredulous world.” 


At Last. 269 

1 ‘ That is a beautiful thought sweet mater, I shall always 
think of it when I see these trees I love so much. ’ ’ 

They walked up and down the ilex allee, passed out under 
a group of fig-trees, and Mrs. Molada gathered green figs, 
oranges and lemons, and clusters of purple grapes, and 
Harry flowers for the sick Lisetta. Every where these two 
seemed to think of others, and to seek to serve the needful 
and the troubled, with never a word to the gallery. 

“ How nice it is Carissima, to have these lovely things, 
and to make others happy with them! ” 

“Yes, indeed. And what will our joy be, think you, 
when we look into the face of the Christ of God, and hear 
Him say: ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the 
least of these, My brethren , ye have done it unto Me.’ ” 

“ That will be glorious! Oh, sweet mater! You are just a 
perfect mater! If / ever do see Jesus so, and hear him say 
those words to me, it will be your work.” 

“ It will be of His grace cheri. * Not unto us ’ — you see 
my meaning? ” 

They drank from the leaping fontana, and descended the 
terraces to the large flower-garden, in which Casa Dagmara 
stands, and out on the great terrazzo to the pergola, where 
Mellingby and Elmo were arranging the breakfast- table — for, 
depend upon it — these two will breakfast in the open air at 
every opportunity. The air was scented with the breath of 
the mimosa, part of the balustrade of the terrazzo was 
sheeted with the blue flowers of the plumbago, the Mediter- 
ranean and the Alps were silent. Antonio was attending to 
the roses. 


270 


At Last. 


“ Buon Giorno Eccellenza!” he said to Mrs. Molada’s 
salutation. 

“This a beautiful spot to train the flowers in Antonio,” 
she said. “ How good of God to create such beauty.” 

‘ ‘ Eccellenza is right, and God is good, or He would not 
be so good to us. ’ ’ 

Antonio offered her a spray of roses, and withdrew. 

‘ ‘ Sweet mater, let us order Giotto and the pony-carriage, 
and mark our first day alone at home, by a visit to Dolce 
Acqua. We will take that faithful lunch-basket, and make 
a day of it. You wish to paint the ruins of the old Doria 
Castello, and you can make your sketches for it, and Don 
Pedro and I will gather wild flowers. By the way, if our 
basket could speak, what a romanza it would tell! ” 

“Yes, would it not? — of all those pleasant wandering in 
la belle France.” 

The orders were given, they would not return till time for 
pranzo, and a basket of fruit was not to be forgotten. Then 
they breakfasted and chatted beneath the roses, the great 
judas-trees cast long shadows on the terrazzo, the pome- 
granates flamed in the scented air, and under the white and 
pink oleanders the ring-doves fluttered. Finally they started 
en grande tenue , halting in the Via San Martino, to gladden 
the hearts of the Contadina — peasant woman — and her sick 
Lisetta. As I have already stated, the valley of the Nervia, 
together with the larger Vale of Oniglia, are the most beau- 
tiful of the Riviera di Ponente. If I could picture ever- 
changing colors, every varied form, mist and shadows, the 
songs of the on-rushing, laughing, sighing, moaning Acqua 


At Last. 


271 


Dolce — could I translate the spirit of this wonderful vale, 
then might I hope to paint it in words. But it is not doable. 

It would seem that Nature just let fall from her great arms 
every form of varied rocks, and showered them with 
cushions of turf, mint, juniper, cudweed, sweet lavender, 
vines, olive-trees, lemon and orange-trees, sword-lilies, roses, 
golden broom, gorse, broke up a violet farm — there are 
violet farms here — and scattered the violets in wonderful 
profusion, hyacinths, tangles of smilax, maiden-hair, spleen- 
worts, pomegranates, ilex, cypress, caroubas, magnolias, 
and so on ad infinitum , and then set the Acqua Dolce leap- 
ing gaily, sometimes madly, or meditating calmly, and 
filling the valley with a thousand variations on Echo. 

They passed Campo Rosso, and then came Dolce Acqua. 
What a nook of almost unearthly beauty, of silence, of soli- 
tude, of repose! The picturesque ruins of the Castello, 
throwing soft shadows on the clear “torrent,” whispered of 
an animated past ended, the silver stream prattled and 
plashed, and tripped like Joy personified, and its Allegro 
flung its spirit on the entire scene. Giotto drank deep 
draughts, and Don Pedro lapped the glittering crystals, 
both casting their shadows in the stream. 

“ God did not put any alcohol in this pure water did he 
mater? What a drink His love has provided for the world! 
Think how the poor trees and flowers would quiver and 
shrink if I should irrigate them with alcohol! ” 

“ What great events, what great results spring from small 
things! A dish of mushrooms caused a European war, and 
changed the destinies' of nations.” 


272 


At Last. 


‘ ‘ How so ? How was that, mater. ’ ’ 

“ Kaiser Charles or Karl VI. of Austria died of a dish of 
mushrooms, and his daughter, and .heiress, afterwards the 
powerful Empress Maria Theresia, had to win her imperial 
rights by arms. All Europe took sides in the Seven Years 
War. Observe the results of alcohol from the first glass. 
Alas! the conscience of the drinker becomes like a dark 
lantern, that lights nobody but himself, and him only with a 
false light which is naught save a Fata Morgana. Like the 
false and cruel ‘Pinabel,’ in ‘Orlando Furioso,’ who in- 
duced the brave ‘ Bradamante ’ to visit the ‘ rocky cavern ’ 
with a lie, that she might perish, and he be no more in 
danger from her discoveries and revelations concerning him. 
Alcohol is a liar. Its spirit engenders hate, and produces 
ruin. ’ * 

Harry gave Don Pedro his basket to carry, and set out on 
his wild-flower hunt, and Mrs. Molada seated herself on a 
boulder, under refreshing shade, and for awhile lost all sense 
of time and space in a profound reverie. Then she began 
her sketch, and the ruins gradually took form under her 
skilful pencil. Then she painted in the colors grays, reds, 
browns, purples, greens, for her water-colors sketch. Now 
and again she rose, stood at different points, to take in the 
various views. Suddenly, as she stood leaning against a 
great rock, she heard a voice exclaim: 

“ At last! Muriel — my Muriel! I have found thee! ” 
That voice sent a shiver and a thrill through her frame 
and her soul, whether of terror, agony or joy she did not 
ask in her intense excitement and astonishment. Surely 


At Last. 


273 


she must be dreaming. That voice, whose every tone she 
knows so well, has been still ten weary years. She trembles 
and clings to the rock against which she leans, then turns 
her head slightly in the direction of the voice, and there 
stands a noble and grand figure with bared head, gazing into 
her eyes with an intensity of feeling now beyond power of 
words. 

He took a step forward, dropped on one knee, and seizing 
her hand kissed it passionately. 

“ I have found thee at last, my sweet Muriel! But how 
white you are! You are faint. Pray sit down. How pale 
and fragile you look! Are you a spirit? Will you elude 
me again ? * * 

‘ ‘ Does the grave give up its dead ? ’ * she started back 
trembling violently. 

‘ ‘ Are you a phantom? Am I dreaming ? * ’ She put her 
hand to her head. “You are notCasella? My Casella? 
Casella Whiteheatherhill ? ” 

The new-comer started to his feet in great bewilderment. 
“Muriel! Muriel! My very own! Do you not know me?’ * 

“ Yes,” she said as in a whisper, “ the eyes are the same, 
the golden locks, and the voice. Oh I should know that 
in a universe. But my Casella died among the cruel 
Arabs, I know not how or when! ” 

“Muriel, here is my hand. Take it in yours. I am 
your Casella, but I am more. I have succeeded, only this 
last summer, to my uncle, the Earl of Edenwood, Earl of 
Gorselands, Deepdale Priory, Homelands, Rippleton, the 
chief family-seat, Edenwood Castle, and the Hawksnest. 


274 


At Last. 


The title is, as you know, a very ancient and wealthy one, 
and I am glad for your sake that I have reached the dignity. 
Now you will be Lady Muriel.” 

All this he said to give her time to recover herself. 

“ But you will vanish in a minute. Oh, tell me, you 
are not a phantom. Where have you been all these years ? 
Why did not you present yourself long ago, if you were not 
in your grave ? ’ ’ 

“ I have not come from the grave, though almost so. 
have sought you. I visited all the principal cities of Europe 
where we had been together. No trace, no trace. Where 
have you been ? And you are in black ! Why are you in 
mourning, Muriel ? Where is your father ? ” 

“ My dear father has been dead ten years. We thought 
you had perished in Khartoum with poor Gordon. No one 
was supposed to have escaped. I lost all hope; he lost all 
hope, he died; the sorrow broke his heart. Oh, death 
knows no sympathy, no pity. He tramples on all tender- 
ness. I thought he had engulfed you too. 

“ ‘Joy that forever coming, comes not, quite ’ was mine. 
The cordon of silence — that awful silence — fell between us. 
Ten years I have counted you with the sacred dead.” 

“ Muriel, my precious one, you look pale and thin. You 
are ill ? ” 

‘ ‘ My physician has sent me here to winter. Lung and 
heart trouble. I do not think I shall ever be well again in 
this world! ” 

“ Good God! Muriel! Do not talk like that. You will 
drive me mad. I am not to lose you again after this long 
waiting. * * 


At Last. 


275 


“ Lord Edenwood seems to take much for granted.” 

“ Muriel, am I not Casella to you ? ” 

4 ‘ Lord Casella. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ No. Only Casella. ’ ’ 

* ‘ How can I call you that now, after so long ? ’ ■ 

“ Come, Muriel, let me make you a nice seat under these 
lovely shadows, and let me tell you my history.” 

She seated herself, and he at her feet among the flowers. 

“ Whose the pony? ” observing Giotto. 

“ Mine. The others of my party are botanizing.” 

“Oh!” 

“Yes. But begin your story.” 

“Where is my ring, Muriel ? Our betrothal ring f ” 

“Your ring is in the jewel -casket you gave me. How 
should I wear it, believing you dead, and I in deep mourn- 
ing ? I put on mourning for you, then for my dear father, 
and then — but tell me your story.” 

“ Very well, I will tell you my story first, since you wish 
it, and then you will be composed sufficiently to tell me 
yours. 

“Tamia was fought, that splendid Arab tribe had been 
slaughtered, all hope of a peaceful evacuation of the Soudan 
was dead, and the Arab took his revenge at Khartoum. I 
must not give you facts that all the world knows. The little 
steamer ‘ Abbas * bore away that party — Colonel Stewart 
and others — before the siege had become too strict to per- 
mit of their departure, but Gordon could not drive me from 
him; no threats, no entreaties succeeded. You remember 
I was invalided, and on furlough for an indefinite period, 


276 


At Last. 


and had accompanied Gordon to Khartoum simply as a 
friend, not officially. We two were left alone after the 
‘ Abbas ’ sailed. Daily from the roof of that huge, lonely 
palace, we gazed over that vast desert to the north, the 
horizon of which is visible for leagues. Is there no army 
approaching? None. We see nothing in the shape of aid. 
Is the world dead beyond the level line marking sky and 
sand ? Has England left us in Khartoum to die ? Good 
God! How awful the cold selfishness of men! How could 
they hesitate one single instant ? Have they forgotten us ? 
Do they not apprehend the danger? Thus we questioned, 
thus we waited. Then comes the tidings that the ‘ Abbas ’ 
lies a battered wreck on the rocks of the Dar Djuna, and 
the relics of her murdered passengers and crew are scattered 
over the wild waste of the wilderness of the Monassir. 
Gordon was in a frenzy of agony at the news, and could 
not believe the tidings true. And how great was his joy 
that I had persisted in not going with them. Still we 
mounted that roof, and gazed over the Nubian desert, the 
‘Waterless Sea.’ Naught save the silence of death. We 
wrote evenings, and deep into the night. Gordon’s diary 
and mine were found. Then at last, the Arabs burst into 
the city. Gordon, I, and a few others, started for the 
church. We could not enter it. A party of approaching 
Arabs fired into our midst. I was struck in the head and 
fell. I knew nothing more of what happened then. I have 
since cherished a wild hope that Gordon was not slain, that 
he is a captive of the Arabs. I have about lost hope now. 
I fear it was his life for those two Pashas. It was months 


At Last. 


277 


before I recovered consciousness. But how do you im- 
agine I was saved? In addition to my English orderly 
whom I had taken out with me, I had an Arab servant, 
Hassan, who had become greatly attached to me through 
gratitude. To Hassan I owe my life. He had a fine little 
son about four years of age, who had been seized with a 
virulent fever. I treated little Said, and he recovered. 
When the volley was fired into our little party and I fell, 
Hassan picked me up saying I was dead, and that he would 
bury me. Since he was an Arab, no one interfered. He 
bore me to his place of abode, obtained what help he could, 
and he and his wife nursed me. So soon as it was possible, 
he conveyed me to Cairo, and summoned an English phy- 
sician. No one knew my name — true name. Hassan knew 
only my Arab name. 

‘ ‘ The English physician said I would probably live, but 
was not likely to recover my reason. However, I did. 
But memory was absolutely dead. I could not tell my own 
name. I remembered nothing of recent events in Khartoum, 
nor whence I came. Hassan never left me. Some three 
or four years passed — or more, I can not tell exactly. One 
day Hassan had gone out with me for a stroll, and I heard 
an English lady sing that thing you were always so fond of : 
‘ The Lord is mindful of His Own.’ 

“ Like a flash of light your countenance rose before me. 
I remembered our betrothal; and the windows of my mind 
were opened. I traveled direct to Rome, where we had 
parted, taking Hassan with me. No trape of you, or your 
father! They told me-you had left years ago ! That was 


278 


At Last. 


all they knew. I dismissed Hassan, who was obliged to 
return to Egypt, and engaged an Italian, Alessandro, who 
has traveled with me ever since. 

“ I went to Florence, Venice and Naples; to Vienna, Ber- 
lin, Dresden, Baden-Baden, Leipzig, Heidelberg. No trace ! 
Then to Paris and Tours. And I tried London, Edinburgh, 
Dublin. The Wandering Jew did not travel so fiercely. 
Then, to try to forget, I crossed the Atlantic to New York, 
crossed to Canada, and in Toronto I heard of the dangerous 
illness of my uncle, Lord Edendwood, and rushed back to 
England, arriving at Eden wood Castle just in time to receive 
his blessing. I am the last of our race. So the title comes 
near extinction. 

‘ ‘After assuming the duties and responsibilities of my rank, 
and of my inheritance, the furious and distracting pain in 
my head returned — the result of my wound in the head — 
and I tore off here to the Riviera to drive it away. They 
say this pain can not be cured — travel and change of climate 
alleviate the distress. These are the facts, in the main, 
dearest Muriel. And I have thee ! At last ! And I hold 
thee fast. And now, Muriel, it is thy turn. Tell me thy 
history, since we parted in Rome. 

“ It was during the reports that Gordon, and all with him, 
had perished — probably — that we left Rome and went to 
Florence, where my dear father died. I was then alone in 
the world. The physician who attended my father was so 
kind to us. He was so noble and good. He asked my 
father for me. My father told him of my betrothal to you 
— you who had surely fallen at Khartoum. But, finally, 


At Last. 


279 


gave him permission to address me on the subject. I was 
then only eighteen, and our friend nearly forty. I told him 
my heart was broken — was buried in the grave of my 
betrothed. He said I might learn to love him. He urged 
that though he was double my age he was as young in spirit 
as ever, and would and could make me happy. I said the 
point was could I make him happy? I promised to con- 
sider the matter. 

“ Shortly after my dear father’s death, Dr. Molada was ap- 
pointed to a professorship in the Toronto Medical School. 
We were married, and went out to Canada, and my dear 
husband died in Toronto over a year ago. I learned to love 
my noble husband. Oh, how good and true he was. His 
memory is very sweet and precious to me.” 

“ Then you had forgotten me, Muriel? ” 

“Forgotten! One never forgets, Casella. One closes 
the door over the past and keeps silence. ‘ The dead past 
was buried. ’ I sought to make the rest of life left to me 
noble.and holy.” 

‘ ‘ And you love me none the less because you loved your 
husband so much ? ” 

‘ ‘ None the less, Casella — for I have you again — and — 
and — my noble husband has gone to God. But my stay 
will be short in this world.” 

“ Oh, Muriel ! Do not say such things. You are mine 
— mine ! ’ ’ 

“ I am God’s first. What He wills, that I will.” 

Just at that moment Don Pedro came bounding on the 
Scene, followed by Harry, who carried a basket of flowers. 
Lord Edenwood sprang to his feet, exclaiming : 


28 o 


At Last. 


‘ Hello, Molada!” 

“ Hello, Lohengrin ! ” 

“Don Pedro! Brave fellow! He remembers me, I do 
believe. ’ * 

“Of course he does,” said Harry. “Where is Ales- 
sandro ? * ’ 

“At Pietra Santa.” 

All this time Mrs. Molada looked on in mute surprise. 
Harry cried, kissing her hand, “How now, mater, about 
the enamel-portrait in the jewel- casket and my Lohengrin? 
Did I not say it was my Lohengrin ? Who was right? ” 

It was now the turn of the new-comer to be surprised. 

“Yes, yes, Harry, you were right. This is the friend 
who gave me the casket and the cabinet, Lord Edenwood. 
I had thought him dead. I had believed him to have 
perished at Khartoum with Gordon. He has just been 
telling me how he escaped.” 

“Yes; but I was not Lord Edenwood then, only Casella 
Whiteheatherhill. I only came into the title this last summer. 
When I saw you on the steamer Corsican to Montreal, I 
was leaving for England, to receive my uncle’s blessing 
before his death. I had just heard of his dangerous illness.” 

“ What a day this has been,” cried Harry, dancing in 
high glee with Don Pedro. ‘ ‘ Are you not glad we came 
to Dolce Acqua to-day, mater ? Thou and the Don must 
be ferociously hungry. ’ ’ 

“Yes. Open the baskets then. You will make the tea. 
We have plenty of fruit. Lord Edenwood will lunch with 
us, and, I hope, accompany us back to Ennabella.” 


At Last. 


281 

“ Shall be delighted. So you are staying at Ennabella! 
A Paradiso! ” 

“So Harry says,” added Mrs. Molada. “We are at 
Casa Dagmara.” 

“ So ! ” said Lord Edenwood. ‘ ‘ I know your near 
neighbors, Lord and Lady Southglen, now staying at Casa 
Bellatesta, very well, and that accomplished pair, the Rev. 
Dr. Muchlove and his charming wife, are friends of mine. ’ * 

“How delightful! ” replied Mrs. Molada. “Then I 
fancy you may be acquainted with Sir Hubert Sommerville 
and Lady Mabel, now staying at Cannes.” 

“Intimately.” 

“We had them as guests for a few days — after our visit 
to them at Cannes — and Lord and Lady Southglen and 
the Muchloves to dine while they were with us.” 

“So it seems we have some mutual friends,” said Harry. 
“ How very pleasant! ” 

Lord Edenwood was the life of the trio. He brought 
water from the Acqua Dolce to boil for tea, while Harry got 
out the wee “stove,” watered Giotto, romped with Don 
Pedro, and extemporized the prettiest table for Mrs. Molada, 
who was pale and trembling from the excitement of the 
unexpected and joyous meeting. 

“ Hello! ” cried Harry; “ there is Alessandro!” 

They were just finished with lunch, and were about to 
prepare for departure. Allessandro was on horseback, lead- 
ing his master’s horse. 

“ I walked miles this morning,” said Lord Edenwood, 
“and directed Alessandro to meet me here.” 


282 


At Last. 


No, Alessandro had dined. He made his grand salutation 
to the Eccellenza and to Harry, and proceeded to water his 
horses. Then they returned to Ennabella, Lord Edenwood 
riding beside the pony-carriage. 

On entering the drawing-room at Casa Dagmara, the 
first objects that greeted Lord Edenwood were the cabinet, 
with doors thrown open, and the chased silver jewel casket 
displayed in it. 

Mrs. Motada opened the casket, and showed him the 
portrait of her husband. Then she opened the inner division, 
and the magnificent enamel portrait looked out in its fascinat- 
smile. 

u Oh! ” cried Harry, “how like your friend it is, mater! ” 

Lord Edenwood picked up their betrothal ring and the 
gold bracelet, bearing the legend: “ Amo te-Ama me." 

“Harry,” he said, with deep emotion, “your dear 
mater and I were betrothed twelve years ago, before I went 
out with Gordon to Khartoum. This sapphire ring was our 
betrothal ring. Will you give your Carissima to me ? She 
is mine. Muriel mine, let me put this ring on your finger 
again, and this bracelet on your wrist, as I did twelve years 
ago.” 

“Would you wed the grave, Casella ? I shall die here.” 

“Mater! Mater! What did you say? Why, you came 
here to get well. You did too much in France. I could 
not live without you, Let your friend put the ring and 
bracelet on again. I give you to him, willingly , for /shall 
be with you both. You will — you must get well. Put on 
the ring, Lord Edenwood.” 


At Last. 


283 


“Very well,” said Mrs. Molada, and she held out her 
hand. “ I will wear your ring — our ring — while I live. 
But I bid you, Casella — and you, my Harry — seek only, 
wish only God’s will — and — at last.” — she sank back in a 
swoon. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


A DECISION. 

“KENNST DU DAS LAND WO DIE 
CITRONEN BLU’HN ? ” 

H ARRY threw himself on his knees, and began covering 
the white hands with kisses. 

“ Do not be alarmed, Harry,” said Lord Edenwood, “it 
is only the great excitement.” 

He rang the bell. Mellingby appeared. 

“ Your lady has fainted,” he said; “attend to her, please. 
I will summon medical aid.” 

He hastened out, intending to despatch Alessandro to 
Pietra Santa for Dr. Ferrara, and on the terrazzo encountered 
the Rev. Dr. Muchlove and the doctor. 

“You are in the nick of time, gentlemen,” he said. 
“Will you wait here, Dr. Muchlove? Mrs. Molada has 
fainted. Will you come with me, Dr. Ferrara ? ” 

Mellingby had laid her mistress on the sofa, and was 
applying cologne water to the head and temples, and Harry 
to the hands. 

Dr. Ferrara administered some remedy, and in a few 
moments Mrs. Molada sat up, smiling at “the foolish 
absurdity of fainting away for nothing. ’ ’ 


At Last. 


285 


Lord Eden wood introduced Dr. Ferrara, the heart-and- 
lungs specialist from Pietra Santa, explaining that he and 
Dr. Muchlove had arrived very opportunely just as she had 
swooned. 

‘ ‘ Permit me to differ from your idea of having fainted for 
‘nothing,’ Mrs. Molada,” said the Doctor. “You have 
been suffering from some undue excitement. The action of 
the heart is very weak and uncertain — unsteady. Avoid all 
excitement. Excitement would probably prove fatal to you. 
Live out of doors. Take long drives — no fatigue — break- 
fast and lunch in the open air. The Rev. Dr. Muchlove 
has communicated to me the cause of your being here. 
There is more immediate danger, believe me, from the heart 
than from the lungs. And now permit me to take leave.” 

* ‘ Will you see Dr. Muchlove ? ’ ’ enquired Lord Edenwood. 

“ Pray, invite him to enter.” 

“ Do you entertain any serious apprehensions regarding 
Mrs. Molada, Doctor? ” asked Lord Edenwood, when they 
found themselves alone on the terrazzo. ‘ ‘ Be very candid 
with me. I have a right to know. She is, or rather was 
my betrothed twelve years ago, before I went out to the 
Soudan.” 

“ Mrs. Molada is in a very precarious state. She may 
die any moment, and she might live for years, but for the 
lung-trouble. She must have had some great excitement 
to-day. The whole frame is agitated to a remarkable 
degree. ’ ’ 

“ Our interview is confidential, Doctor,” said Lord Eden- 
wood. “Allow me to explain. I met Mrs. Molada to-day 


286 


At Last. 


quite unexpectedly, after a separation of twelve years. She 
thought me dead. She believed I had fallen with Gordon 
at Khartoum. She has reckoned me among the dead for 
ten years. I came upon her suddenly at Acqua Dolce, 
where she was making a sketch in water-colors of the ruins 
of the Doria Castello. She was terrified at first, and held 
me for a phantom.” 

“ It is a wonder it did not kill her — the suddenness — and 
she had the fixed idea of your death, * * said the Doctor. 

“ You must be right. I found it difficult to convince her 
of the reality of my presence. I persuaded her, this after- 
noon, after our return here, to wear again our bethrothal 
ring, and Harry seconded my persuasions, when she assured 
us she would not live long.” 

“ I would strongly counsel an immediate marriage.” 

“ If I could persuade her. She has only promised to 
‘ wear our betrothal ring ’ during life. ’ ’ 

“ I tell you frankly, Lord Eden wood, the only safety for 
your friend is in a settled quiet. Drive to Eza to-morrow. 
Manage to lunch in that enchanting spot, and under those 
fine carouba- trees, you may hit upon an irresistable plea for 
a speedy union. Try it. Try it. There comes that lordly 
boy, showing Dr. Muchlove out ! A remarkable boy that ! 
A born noble.” 

“ He is a noble; and he shall be a noble — so recognized by * 
the world. An idea has struck me, Doctor. I shall win! ” 

‘ ‘ Success to you Lord Edenwood. ” 

That evening Mrs. Molada wrote her promised letter to 
the Bishop of Hollikulliwogony. There had never been a 


At Last. 


287 


question in her mind as to what her reply to his proposal 
would be; but she had given her promise to write, and she 
knew he was expecting her letter. 

ENNABELLA, RIVIERA. 

CASA DAGMARA. 

My Dear Bishop Taborno : 

Dear friend: — After our ramblings in France, we are settled 
here in a lovely house, which I have rented for the winter. My 
precious boy grows and thrives every way, and throws out roots 
and branches to the sun and the light like a thirsty flower or tree. 
I have given him up to the King — without reserve. 

It must be Entsagen — it must be India alone. But you 
counted the cost when you offered Christ your life and being. 
You did not reserve your will. You gave Him your service, and 
He chooses for you. When you consecrated yourself fully, as I 
know you did, you died. You are in the grave of the risen Saviour. 
Keep the grave-stone dowti. Self will attempt, perhaps, to rise 
again. Self is the most stubborn and persistent thing in the uni- 
verse. Now it is Christ in you.” This is an insoluble riddle to 
the world. Oh, learn daily, as Saint Paul did, “ the power of this 
resurrection,” from a life of self-sin, to a life of perfect love. Entsa- 
gen is for us both. 

“ I shall never see Toronto again, although my husband’s grave 
is there. He is not there — only his house in which he dwelt. My 
spring will be passed among the ‘Saints in Light.’ You referred 
to my betrothed, Casella Whiteheatherhill, in our interview at 
Tintern Abbey. He did not perish with Gordon in Khartoum ! 
He is here ! He found me this morning, sketching at Acqua 
Dolce. Imagine the surprise ! I had counted him dead for ten 
years. I can not analyze my emotions. I can not tell whether it 
was terror or joy that animated me. I could not believe the reality 
of his presence, and fancied I saw a spirit. How absurd ! One 


288 


At Last. 


never sees a spirit. That might have convinced me. But my 
powers of reason seem to have forgotten their functions. Casella 
rode beside our pony-carriage back here. He asked where our 
betrothal-ring was, and he and Harry, between them, persuaded 
me to wear it, after ten years. And he put it on my finger. I 
promised to wear it while I live. It gives him pleasure, and dear 
Harry thinks it will help in a recovery, which is but a vain hope. 

The next tidings you will have of me will be that I have gone 
to the Land of Light; that I am in the Dawn of an Everlasting 
Day; that I am in the immediate Holy Presence. 

I have been reading, over and over, the promises in Revelation 
attached to * Overcometh.’ How wonderful they are! Will you 
study them with me, when you read this letter ? 

Good-bye, my beloved friend in Jesus, until we meet in the 
Throne Room. Muriel Molada. 

Lord Edenwood arrived in his carriage at Casa Dagmara 
the following morning, by arrangement, and found Mrs. 
Molada and Harry just finishing breakfast on the terrazzo. 

“ I have given all directions for luncheon at Eza,” he 
said, after the morning greetings, “ and you, my dear Mrs. 
Molada, have absolutely not a care — nothing to do but to 
grow strong, and drink in this wonderful air. It is one of 
the finest mornings I have ever seen. I brought this spray 
of roses and the maiden-hair for you to wear to-day, but 
I see that Harry — the young rascal — has anticipated me. 
Where did you find those splendid roses, Braveheart? ” 

“ In our grounds, Lohen — Lord Edenwood. You have 
not seen the upper terraces of Casa Dagmara yet. ’ ’ 

“No; you must let me see them to-morrow .’ * 

“ But give me your flowers, Casella; I will wear them in 
my girdle — so. What taste you have! Did you arrange 
these yourself? ” 


At Last 


289 


“Totally — I am glad you like them, Muriel.” 

4 4 Who would not like what you arrange, my friend ? ’ ’ 

How bright she looked — how the great lustrous eyes 
gleamed! But Lord Edenwood was not deceived. He saw 
the hectic flush with a shudder, and knew that she was a 
rare exotic flower, soon to be transplanted to higher realms. 
He knew that he could not hold her back by his strong love. 
He was not sure he wished to — he hardly knew. But he 
would be her husband; she should be his wife. And, oh, 
how he would cherish her last days — or hours — and Harry 
should be his son and heir — and add to his name, Molada, 
his own. He should be Molada- Whiteheatherhill, Earl of 
Edenwood. 

He drove away in a dream of love and beauty, with 
Muriel at his side, and the kingly lad opposite, and he 
chanted a Te Deum in his soul, that he had the power to 
do all that wealth, rank and love could do to make life 
sweet to his beloved, and to bless her boy. 

4 4 What are your views in reference to the temperance 
question, Muriel? ” he inquired as they drove along. 

44 Total prohibition, Casella. I have impressed upon my 
Harry’s mind the deep principle of love to the race, and 
shown him that Love covld not give alchol to a brother or 
sister. And I may tell you Harry has been a missionary- 
worker in Toronto among the newsboys and drunkards.” 

4 4 Then we are in perfect harmony on this weighty ques- 
tion. I am an absolute Prohibitionist. When I succeeded 
my uncle to the Earldom of Edenwood, and awoke to the 
great responsibilities of my position, I resolved that I would 


2go 


At Last . 


banish alcohol totally from my estates. These estates are 
vast. I have thousands under my care and influence. I 
held meetings among my people, told them my views, and 
explained that I would not renew any licenses on my estates. 
As they expired they were dead. I told them I would 
build new cottages and tear down the old damp places — 
where there were any — that I would be a father to them, 
and give them all in my power necessary to their happiness, 
but that I would not consent to kill them and their chil- 
dren with deadly poison. I assured my tenants, large and 
small, that I would renew their leases on one condition 
only, that they would second me in this matter. I told 
them I would not attempt to coerce anyone; every man was 
free to choose. I would banish alcohol from the Earldom of 
Edenwood by the grace of God. I believe they will work 
with me. If all the English nobility would take this stand, 
we would soon root out this deadly evil from the land. 
Some are doing it. I tried my wings on this subject before 
my uncle’s death. When I made the Atlantic voyage last 
summer for the relief of that maddening pain in the head, 
not with any idea of finding you, for I never dreamed of 
your being out there, I entertained the idea of lecturing on 
temperance for awhile, and I delivered a lecture in Toronto. 
You know my mother’s name was Colonna, and I bore that 
name, since I desired to travel incognito, a whim, but I 
wished it.” 

“ Is it possible ? ” said Mrs. Molada. “ I heard much of 
that eloquent lecture. To think that you should have been 
so near, and have talked with my laddie, and yet not have 
discovered me!” 


At Last. 


291 


“ The name Molada was strange to me, you see, though 
Braveheart’s face spoke strangely to me.” 

Harry was an intent listener to this conversation, now and 
then having a word of confidence with Don Pedro, who 
occupied a place in the front of the carriage with the coach- 
man. Finally they reached beautiful Eza. For awhile they 
beheld the enchanting pictures, far and near, in silence. 
Then a servant arrived in a dog-cart with luncheon. They 
seated themselves under those fine carouba- trees, and enjoyed 
the delicious refreshments, attended by that trained gar£on, 
who anticipated every want at a glance. 

When all was removed, Lord Edenwood directed that the 
two men should enjoy a meal before the garyon left. Then 
Harry and Don Pedro rambled off to “spy out the land,” 
Lord Edenwood sought out the loveliest spot, with the best 
view, and arranged a seat for his betrothed, throwing him- 
self on the ground before her. They gazed at the scene for 
some moments in silence, both hearts too full for utterance. 

“Muriel!” 

“Yes, Casella.” 

“ I want you just to be my wife. Give me the right to 
be with you always, and take care of you. You are mine. 
You gave yourself to me long since in a solemn vow. Let 
us just be married quietly without delay. I can not exist 
away from you.” 

“ That would be most selfish of me Casella. I should be 
only a burden. You are the owner of great estates and a 
proud name. Marry a maiden snitable to you, when I am 
gone. You will not have long to wait. Do your duty to 
your inheritance.” 


292 


At Last. 


Their eyes met. Muriel’s were full of unshed tears. 

“ Muriel, you know I will never marry any other woman. 
My love for you is my very being. Be entreated. Be my 
wife ? ’ ’ 

“ Would that I might. It would not be just to let you 
sacrifice yourself so, and it would not be very long.” 

“ Then I shall never marry. Will you refuse me the only 
joy within my reach ? Oh, say yes,” 

“ Do not try to make me selfish, Casella.” 

A long pause ensued. Then Lord Edenwood seized her 
hand, touched the ring, and reminded her of their plighted 
troth so long ago. 

“Muriel, I have a claim. You are mine, in sickness as 
in health. And who knows ? You might recover.” 

She shook her head. “ Never Casella. Do not flatter 
yourself with a fallacious hope. I shall not recover.” 

“ Muriel, I am the last of my race. I shall marry none 
other but you. The estates will revert to the crown, the 
title become extinct. I desire to accomplish a great reform 
on my estates, but the opportunity will be lost, for there is 
no heir, unless you come to the rescue. Harry, as my step- 
son, will be my heir. I shall educate him for the Earldom. 
He will, by act of Parliament, add my family name to 
Molada, and he succeeds me as Lord Edenwood. He is 
already a prohibitionist, and will carry on the reform begun 
by me. It seems to me a marvellous providence that this is 
so. You will never refuse me the felicity of being near you, 
and of taking care of you while you live ? Never. This 
winter we will go to Rome, re-visit the Royal Court of the 


At Last. 


293 


great-souled Rex Umberto, and the fascinating Regina Mar- 
gherita. Spring will come, and sunny May. Then I will take 
you to England, and present Lady Muriel of Edenwood to 
our Queen, our beloved Victoria. Then we will travel, and 
educate Harry. And who knows, you may renew your 
strength. ’ * 

Lord Edenwood rose to his knees, took her hand and 
pressed it to his lips in a long caress. 

“ You will Muriel ? It is yes?” 

“Yes, Casella, yes. I will be your wife.” 

He sprang to his feet, and bending down to her, imprinted 
a long kiss on the lofty white brow. Muriel rose and laid 
her head upon his breast. He lifted the holy, pale face, and 
their lips met in a lingering kiss, the twin to that betrothal 
kiss of twelve years ago. 

“ My precious Muriel! Naught but death shall separate 
thee and me. Mine at last.” He drew her hand within his 
arm, still holding it in his, and they moved to another 
point, and stood looking down upon the radiant and un- 
pathed Mediterranean. 

“ You remember young Taborno, Casella? ” 

“Yes. Why?” 

“ He is Bishop of Hollikulliwogony in India. He is in 
Toronto now, returned from India for a rest. I met him at 
Tintern Abbey, the residence of a friend. He made me a 
second proposal of marriage. You knew of the first. I 
did not accept. But he was so terribly in earnest, and 
begged me not to give my answer then. I promised to 
write. I sent my letter of farewell to him yesterday. When 


2 94 


At Last . 


I am gone, tell him. He will be glad of news, and to hear 
from you. Will you ? ” 

“ Most assuredly.” 

“ I told him of your return, and that I wore our ring.” 

“ When shall be our wedding-day sweet Muriel ? Let it 
be at once. One day this coming week. May it be on 
Wednesday ? ” 

‘‘Very well. It shall be on Wednesday at noon, in the 
church of Pietra Santa, and Dr. Muchlove, assisted by the 
Rev. Mr. Sommerville of Tours, brother of Sir Hubert, 
shall marry us.” 

“ I know him well. Just what I should wish. And you 
would like the Southglens, the Sommervilles from Cannes, 
and Dr. Ferrara ? ” 

“Certainly. But no one beside.” 

“ May I arrange it all for the function ? ” 

“Yes, Casella. Who so well ? ” 

“ I will see the Southglens and Muchloves, and Dr. Fer- 
rara. To the others I must write. Muriel, darling, lay 
aside these sable robes to-day, will you not ? They are in- 
jurious to your health.” 

“Yes, I am a widow no longer, but your blissful wife.” 

“And I will send the carriage to-morrow morning, and 
you can drive to Pietra Santa, and make any orders you 
desire. You will have Lady Alice over this evening. She 
will be delighted.” 

“Yes. I will take her with me, as well as Harry. But 
let no hint of our plans become known, or, instead of quiet, 
we shall have a crowd at the church.” 


At Last. 


295 


“ Not one syllable, if I can help it.” 

Suddenly Harry and Don Pedro stood before the pair. 
Harry uncovered and saluted profoundly. 

“ Bless me! Where did you come from so quietly 
Harry ? ’ ’ asked Lord Eden wood. 

“We made noise enough. I fear you two people are 
growing deaf in ” 

“ Our happiness. Harry, your Carissima has promised 
to be my wife, and you become my son and heir.” 

“I congratulate with all my heart. Nothing could give 
me such joy.” He kissed gallantly his mother’s hands, and 
gave his hand to Lord Edenwood. ‘ ‘ I give you my paternal 
blessing, my children.” 

Lord Edenwood laughed heartily, and Muriel smiled on 
her beautiful boy, and, stooping, kissed him. 

“Don Pedro! Here, sir, give the paw.” The noble 
animal obeyed with great dignity. ‘ ‘ Remember, Don 
Pedro will be at the function, and will walk with me behind 
the bridal pair. ’ ’ 

“ Harry must have a new suit,” said Muriel. 

“Yes, he, too, must lay aside his mourning,” said Lord 
Edenwood. 

“And Don Pedro shall wear a wreath of white clematis 
montana over his collar, ’ ’ cried Harry, ‘ ‘ like that which he 
is wearing now. Is it not lovely ? ” 

Returned to Villa Dagmara, Lord Edenwood proposed 
to himself to call at once on Lord and Lady Southglen, and 
the Rev. Dr. and Mrs. Muchlove. 

“ And you will return here to dinner, Casella? ” 


296 


At Last. 


“ If I may — shall be most happy.” 

Mrs. Molada descended to the drawing-room, dressed 
for dinner in a soft gray silk, and Harry wore a suit of the 
same favorite color. 

Lord Edenwood, on his return, looked much pleased at 
the change. 

In the evening the Southglens and Muchloves came to 
offer their congratulations. Lord Edenwood had told them 
the romantic story, and they had never heard anything so 
wonderful in all the realms of fiction. And, in fact, how 
true it is, that real life far surpasses the wildest dreams of 
romance. 

Mrs. Molada invited Lady Alice and Mrs. Muchlove to 
accompany her to Pietra Santa the next day. Lord Casella 
wrote his letters the same evening to the Sommervilles at 
Cannes and at Tours, telling them the thrilling story, and 
inviting them to the wedding on the part of Mrs. Molada, 
whom he desired to spare all fatigue, and he visited Dr. 
Ferrara. 

Then came letters of congratulation, and costly gifts for 
the bride. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


IN THE PERGOLA. 

AT LAST! GONE! 

HEN Lord Edenwood entered the church on his 



wedding-day, accompanied by Dr. Ferrara, he 


found it crowded to the doors, and the ushers had, with 
difficulty, reserved an aisle and the chancel for the bridal 
party. The romantic and thrilling story had circulated in 
the city, and much interest and excitement prevailed. A 
crowd was assembled outside the church, to catch a glimpse 
of the bride. 

From the entrance to the church up the aisle to the altar 
little white-robed maidens stood in a double row, between 
which the bride was to walk, each with a basket of roses. 
Nobody knew how it had all been managed, but, inter nos, 
Lady Alice and Lady Mabel were the prime movers in 
carrying out this graceful fancy. 

At length Mrs. Molada arrived. How superb she looked! 
She wore a robe of purple velvet trimmed with sable, and 
a bonnet of the same, and Harry wore the same materials, 
and a Troubadour hat of purple velvet and sable, in the 
front of which the Earl had fastened a large solitaire 
diamond. 

The bride wore no ornament, save the sapphire ring and 


298 


At Last. 


the gold bracelet, bearing the legend, Amo te-Ama me. 
As she walked up the aisle to the altar, over the roses scat- 
tered at her feet as she passed, led by her regal boy, one 
s iw that a lady of imperial dignity and beauty and exalted 
purity of soul walked there. 

Don Pedro followed in his wreath of white clematis 
montana, and the organ pealed forth the march in the 
Gotterdammerung. 

When Dr. Muchlove asked, “Who giveth this woman 
to be married to this man?” Harry replied in a clear 
voice, “I.” 

After the bridal pair had been congratulated by their 
friends, they repaired to the vestry with their guests to sign 
the registry, the organ meanwhile playing the march in 
Lohengrin. 

Then Lord and Lady Edenwood left the church, greeted 
as they retired by the joyous notes of the Mendelssohn 
wedding march, and in many a bright eye glistened a tear, 
for all rejoiced with the beautiful Lady Muriel, the last scion 
of a race as old and noble as that of the Whiteheatherhills. 

They drove away to Villa Dagmara, followed by their 
friends, where a wedding dejeuner was served after the 
reception. To each guest the Earl introduced Harry as: 
‘ ‘ My son and heir, Lord Harry Molada, of Edenwood. ’ ’ 

Sir Hubert and Lord Southglen made a felicitous speech 
— to say nothing of the others — and the Earl’s reply was 
not less so. Then somebody called for Lord Harry Molada, 
and he rose, seated himself at the piano, and played the 
march in Lohengrin. In reality he was speaking to his 


At Last. 


299 


noble step-father, and the Earl understood fully the delicate 
compliment. Then he played his beautiful “Variations” 
on “ My Love Lies Far in a Soldier’s Grave,” and now it 
was Lady Muriel’s turn to be deeply moved. 

“What is that, Lord Harry? ” enquired Mrs. Muchlove. 
'* I do not recall it.” 

“It is variations,” replied Lord Harry, “on a song 
written by my dear mater, Lady Muriel, ‘ My Love Lies 
Far in a Soldier’s Grave,’ when she thought that her be- 
trothed had fallen at Khartoum. It was sung at the Molada 
concert in Toronto. She wrote it especially for that 
concert.” 

“ It is very beautiful, indeed. Could you let me have the 
song and music ? ” 

“ Certainly, Mrs. Muchlove. I will copy them for you,” 

“ I have heard much concerning that ‘ Molada Concert,’ ” 
remarked Lady Alice. “It created a furore in Toronto. 
The journals were full of it in England as well as in Canada. 
You are partial to Wagner, I see, my Lord Harry.” 

“Yes, Lady Alice, I admire him and love him, and I 
once had a very dear friend named Lohengrin , just a grand 
friend.” 

He glanced at the Earl and Lady Muriel with a glad 
smile, and they both returned it with deep emotion. But 
the day was declining. The party was about to break up. 
The bride and bridegroom rose from table, and they all 
went out as by common consent on the terrazzo. Lady 
Muriel was pale with some great thought. She led the way 
to the beautiful rose — over-grown pergola . 


300 


At Last. ' 


“ My dear friends,” she said, “I would like you all to 
unite with me in singing ‘Abide with Me/ before you go, 
before we part, perhaps not all to see each other again in 
this world.” 

Ever the same, this pure soul, turned to Christ always, as 
the needle to the pole. Her precious boy ran for the 
guitarre, Lady Muriel seated herself in the pergola, her 
husband standing at her side. They sang the first verse, 
Lady Muriel’s white face upturned to the deep blue of the 
Heavens, the lad’s gaze fastened on her countenance, as if 
he fain would read the thoughts reigning in her soul. 

They began the second verse, when the guitarre fell from 
her hand to the ground, and she exclaimed, with arms out- 
stretched, “ At Last! Harry! Casella! Fare ” and 

sank back in her husband’s arms. 

Lord Harry threw himself on his knees at her feet, and 
gazed in her face. 

“Mater! Mater! Little mother! Carissima!” cried the 
boy. “ Pater! Mater is not answering me! Does she hear 
me do you think ? ” 

Dr. Ferrara had pressed forward, and was examining the 
pulse and heart. “ No, no, Lady Muriel will hear no more 
on earth. She is gone ! ’ ’ 

With a wail and a cry that thrilled all present, the 
boy threw himself upon the ground with his face in his 
hands. 

“ You must be mistaken, Doctor,” cried Lord Casella in 
agony. “Try your remedies. It is merely a fainting fit, 
as before.” 


At Last. 


301 


“ No remedy can help my Lord. Lady Muriel has gone 
to God.” 

“Oh, God! Oh, God! Do not tell me my precious wife 
is dead.” 

They bore her to the drawing-room, and laid her on the 
sopha. The Rev. .Mr. Sommerville of Tours called to the 
prostrate lad, but there was no reply. Lady Mabel knelt 
down and touched him, but he eave no sign of hearing. 
They summoned the doctor who lifted him up. He was 
unconscious. 

“He is in for a violent attack of brain fever,” said the 
doctor. “ Here Mellingby! help me to get Lord Harry to 
his room, and to bed. It will be brain fever. Attend to 
him. I will at once send a professional nurse from Pietra 
Santa.” 

Meanwhile Dr. Muchlove was trying to approach the 
stricken husband of a few hours. 

‘ ‘ Come with me Lord Casella, ’ 5 he said. 

“ Leave me alone with my dead. I shall not leave her. 
She is mine . I can not, I will not give her up, I can not! 
She is not dead. She will revive presently. Oh, God! 
thou hast stricken me sore! Mr. Muchlove, I can not give 
her up.” 

“ Not to God! You surprise me! I thought, she thought 
you were a Christian. God has taken her, and your will is 
not dead yet my friend.” 

“ Oh, yes, yes, to God, yes! Oh, God! there is nothing 
more! ” 

“There is the young Lord Harry, her son . Come to 


302 


At Last. 


him. He lies in his bed insensible. It is brain fever the 
doctor says. ’ 1 

Dr. Ferrara approached him as he left the drawing-room, 
and said, “ If you will commission me, I will give all neces- 
sary orders according to your command.” 

Lord Casella put his hand to his head. “Oh, God!” 
he cried, “ this maddening pain ! Orders! Yes — yes — there 
must be orders. Summon the best embalmers. Let the 
precious form be embalmed and placed in a crystal casket, 
until — until my son take a final farewell. It would kill him 
to have it otherwise. When all is done, let me know. Let 
my wife be robed in white satin-, with the long golden curls, 
and the two wedding-rings on the finger. This is her first 
wedding-ring. Bring me the sapphire ring now, that is for 
my son, her boy. He will find a little comfort in that . Dr. 
Ferrara, I trust you as a brother.” 

Lord Casella hastened to his son’s room. The lad was in 
the ravings of a violent fever, and knew no one. Dr. Fer- 
rara brought him the betrothal-ring, and the Earl fitted it to 
the lad’s middle finger, it was just the size. 

Weeks passed. The boy had a hard struggle for life, but 
youth conquered, and one Sunday morning as Lord Casella 
sat beside him, he opened his eyes in conscious recognition, 
and enquired in a voice scarcely audible: 

“ Pater, what has happened? Have I been ill — long? ” 

“Yes, Harry mine, you have been very ilf. You must not 
talk. ’ ’ 

“Where is Carissima?” He gazed in the Earl’s face. 
‘ ‘ Where is she ? ” he repeated. 


At Last. 


303 


The Earl’s lips quivered, a reply was impossible. Then 
Lord Harry looked down at his hand and observed the ring. 
“Father, thy will be done!” whispered the stricken boy, 
folding his hands, and sinking deeper in the pillows. Soon 
he could sit up, then move about his room, then go out on 
the terrazzo, and then the Earl took him for long drives. 

One morning they had rambled up to the ilex all6e, when 
the boy cried suddenly: 

‘ ‘ Pater, let us leave here. I can not bear it. Can I see 
my Carissima now ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Do you think you are strong enough my son ? * ’ 

“ Oh, yes, oh yes, let us go now. Let me say good-bye.” 

So they drove to Pietra Santa, and sought the crypt of 
the church. Lady Muriel lay lovely to behold in the crys- 
tal casket. Lord Harry spoke no word. He knelt down 
by the casket and gazed long at the marble face so still in 
death. Not a muscle of the boy’s countenance moved, not 
a tear. He was as if turned to marble. 

“ At last ! ” he whispered, “ Farewell, Carissima! You 
hear the ‘ Inasmuch * now, ‘ Farewell! ’ ” 

He rose and threw himself into the Earl’s arms. 

“Thank you dear Pater, for having also my own dear 
Pater’s ring on that hand.” 

“ And, my son, here in this holy presence let me tell you 
what your Carissima said the day before the wedding. She 
said: ‘ I intend Harry to have my Roman cabinet and the 
silver jewel-casket with its precious treasnres. Should he 
ever love, I would wish him to use my — our betrothal ring.’ 

Whether she thought death was so near I can not tell. 


304 


At Last . 




I have delivered her message, or rather told you her 
bequest. ” 

Then with one lingering gaze he whispered: “Farewell, 
till the First Resurrection.” 

At Edenwood Castle is an exquisite Gothic chapel, the 
“ Lady Muriel Chapel,” in white marble and costly Munich 
stained-glass, built by Lord Casella. On the pure white 
marble floor are two memorials of Lady Muriel, one 
representing her sleeping on a marble couch, with a spray 
of roses and maiden- hair in her left hand, which rests upon 
the breast, the right hand at the side, from which has fallen 
a single rose in full bloom. At the foot stands a superb 
Angel of Death, a rival in beauty to that one by Canova in 
Saint Peters at Rome. At the head stands Faith, star- 
crowned, pointing upward. 

The other memorial is a white marble group, each a por- 
trait. It represents the death-scene in the pergola. Lady 
Muriel has fallen back in her husband’s arms, who stands 
supporting her, a magnificent form, and the guitarre has 
fallen on the ground, while her beloved boy kneels at her 
feet, and gazes in her face, and Don Pedro the faithful close 
by him looks on in disconsolate sorrow. 

“What a tragic story,” says everyone who comes to view 
this masterpiece of art and love. Hither the two stricken 
ones came often, sometimes together, more frequently 
alone. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


TRAVEL— REUNION. 


HE Earl of Edenwood, with his son, Lord Harry, spent 



1 the first year of mourning in England, doing noble 
work among all classes in the cause of temperance, holding 
meetings weekly in his own earldom and elsewhere, and our 
hero followed up the good work begun in Toronto, hunting 
out the drinkers, and persuading boys and men to become 
members of his Anti-Sin Club. 

In the face of the astounding and appalling fact that 
alcoholic intoxicants are sold to uine-hundred-millions, they 
both felt there was no time to be lost in the endeavor to 
stop this crime against humanity. 

“Courage my boy,” the Earl would say, “we will 
throttle this monster fraud, this monster crime, this 
“ Geryon ,” that is cheating humanity of soul and body.” 

There was a. great revival in the earldom, which spread 
elsewhere, the churches awoke to the importance of the 
work, the greatness of the need, seme volunteered to give 
up their license to sell intoxicating drinks. 

During the first part of the year, news came of the death 
of Mr. Raben of Rabenshort, and a copy of his will was 
sent to them. Lord Harry was sole heir to the legacy of 
the $5,000. 


3°6 


At Last . 


“ Pater, I can not, of course, accept this money. With 
your permission I will write to Messers Goodwill, Seaklere, 
Deep and Trueman, desiring them to hand over this sum to 
the “ Molada Newsboys’ Hall ” in Toronto. And there is 
another matter I had almost forgotten. On our arrival in 
Paris en route to the Riviera, we received a cheque for 
$2,000. We never knew who sent it. I would like to 
send that sum to the Rev. Dr. Glenavon, Judge Underhill 
and Mayor Mowbank to be used for furnishing books, 
magazines and papers for the reading room of the Newsboys’ 

' Hall. I know my Carfssima would wish this could she 
speak to us. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I know she would Harry. Do as you will. I give you 
power to manage this aftair in your own way.” 

Finally that distressing pain in Lord Edenwood’s head 
again forced him to travel. They made a tour of the world, 
Lord Harry’s tutor traveling with them. On the Rhine 
they met Judge and Mrs. Underhill and Gabrielle, and they 
traveled for some months together. After this tour Gab- 
rielle was to study in London, Paris and Rome, before 
returning to Toronto. 

In India they visited Hollikulliwogony, and saw Bishop 
Taborno. Lord Edenwood had written, as promised in that 
memorable scene at Eza, but now, in personal interviews, 
he related all the thrilling story of his escape from the Arabs 
at Khartoum through an Arab, his unexpected meeting 
with his betrothed at Acqua Dolce, his married life of a few 
hours, and her sudden death. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


AT LAST. 

AMO TE— AMA ME. 

“ Vous qui pieurez y venez d ce Dieu , car il pieure; 

Vous qui souffrez , venezd lui , car il guerit, 

Vous qui tremblez , venez d lui , car il sourit; 

Vous qui passeZy venez d lui , car il demeure .” * 

F OURTEEN years have passed since the Lady Muriel 
Chapel at Edenwood Castle was built. 

An eager multitude has filled the Fleur-de-Lis 'church, 
the joy-bells of Toronto are ringing, and the Rev. Dr, 
Glenavon stands waiting at the altar. What do you imagine 
is the event that has so excited and interested all classes, 
and very particularly the fair maidens of that beautiful city ? 

Young Lord Harry, .Earl of Edenwood, leads to the altar 
to-day the beautiful, highly-cultivated and good Gabrielle of 
Tintern Abbey, the only surviving child of Judge and Mrs. 
Underhill. The bride wears white satin, the fittest for a 
bride meseems, veil and wreath, but her only ornaments are 
that superb sapphire ring and the bracelet bearing Amo 

* You who weep, come to this God, for He weeps; 

You who suffer, come to Him, for He heals, 

You who tremble, fear, come to Him, for He smiles; 

You who die, come to Him, for He liveth forever. 


308 


At Last . 


te-Ama me, more precious to her young heart than aught 
beside, as once worn by the mother of her young bride- 
groom. She wears over her heart the badge of the 
W. C. T. U. in form of a heart of gold, and carries a 
bouquet of glorious roses, beautiful enough to have grown 
in the dominions of the fair Margherita, Queen of Italy. 

Her golden hair and large brown eyes glitter in the glad- 
ness of love on this bright June morning. Her bridemaids, 
fourteen of them, all her choicest friends, in the colors of 
her hair and eyes, follow her to the altar, each wearing the 
badge of the W. C. T. U. in gold, and a united portrait of 
the bride and bridegroom in enamel, the gift of the young 
Earl, and each carries a basket of roses. On their wedding- 
day, the bridal pair set apart a sum sufficient to support one 
hundred missionaries to China, and fifty to Japan; fifty to 
India, and a like number to Africa and the isles of the sea 
for fifty years. Both had agreed that the sum usually ex- 
pended in costly gems, and other foolish outlays, should be 
given to ‘ ‘ Rescue the perishing. ’ ’ They not only sang the 
words, but they did it, which is far more. 

Lord Casella is not at this beautiful Christian wedding. 
He sleeps in the crypt of the Lady Muriel Chapel, beside 
his betrothed of twelve years, and his wife of a few short 
hours. He lived to see her son, his son beloved, attain his 
majority, and the coming of age of the heir of the Earldom 
of Edenwood, was the occasion for wonderful rejoicings. 

On this happy day a delightful surprise was prepared for 
the noble-hearted Earl, and the popular young Lord Harry. 
The people presented an address to the Earl, declaring 
themselves for Prohibition. 


At Last. 


309 


“ Oh! ” said Lord Harry to his father, “ how my Carissima 
would rejoice could she but hear that address.” 

“ She does hear it, son, she hears if.” 

“ Are you sure? ” 

‘ ‘ Sure. Do you forget the - crowd of witnesses ? * Those 
‘witnesses’ are human souls redeemed, not angels.” 

But before Lord Harry had completed his career at Ox- 
ford, Lord Casella was gathered to his ancestors, and a single 
Molada-Whiteheatherhill, last of his family, is left to build 
up a new and powerful race, powerful in intellect, but, more 
important still in goodness, true Moladas. With Prohibition 
a fait accompli , and with his gifted young wife, his heart 
beats high with hope for a great and mighty future for his 
own people on this his wedding-day. 

Mayor Mowbank is not at this auspicious wedding. He 
dwells in the Unseen Land. Baldera Trueman has de- 
veloped into a brilliant pianista , and has performed before 
the most distinguished assemblies in America and Europe, 
and before many crowned heads by command. Mr. True- 
man still lectures on temperance, and is a light of the first 
magnitude. Gertrude Raben has given her life to Paganism, 
and is, with her husband, one of Hudson Taylor’s mission- 
aries in China. 

Max Dorn, who once said to our hero, Harry Molada — 
“ Now I don't know most nothin' ” — has joined a party of 
students from the Toronto University, Victoria College, 
MacMaster University and Knox College, from the first of 
which he is a gold medalist, and they are in Hudson Taylor’s 
regiments, teaching the Chinese the Way of Life. Max 


3i° 


At Last 


owes his rise to good Mayor Mowbank, who discovered 
the lad’s talent, and induced others to unite with him in 
educating the boy. Jack Drinkdregs is an enthusiastic 
worker in the “ Mowbank Toronto Mission,” and Mr. 
Drinkdregs has joined the Salvation Army, and is proof 
against all the rum-bottles in the world. The “ Molada 
News Boys’ Hall” is soon to be finished, and is to be a 
great ornament to Toronto. 

The sweet-singer Roma, with all his pretty and loving 
little ways, is dead. Last, but by no means least, the 
“amber-coated” Don Pedro was at the bridal of Lord 
Harry and Gabrielle Underhill, and walked in the bride’s 
procession. He looked simply superb, wearing a wreath of 
bridal-roses and streamers of ribbons of white and the colors 
of the bride’s hair and eyes. Don Pedro is an immense 
favorite with Lady Edenwood. She has had herself photo- 
graphed with him, and he attends her everywhere, and 
especially does he delight to follow the bridal pair on their 
canters through the green lanes and parks of Gorselands, 
Deepdale Priory, Homelands, Rippleton, the Hawksnest 
and Edenwood Castle. 














































































































































































































































































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